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THovels CBliss Careis* 

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** This author possesses above all the imcommon gift of being 
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this is perhaps a more difl&cult task ." — Philadelphia Inquirer, 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publishers, 

715 and Tij Market Street - Philadelphia. 


Other People's Lives 


«/ 

By Rosa Nouchette Carey 

Author of ** Nellie* s Memories** 

“ The Old, Old Story,** etc. 


w/ 



Philadelphia 

J. B. Lippincott Company 


18^8 



Copyright, 1897, 

BY 

J. B. Lippincott Company. 


CONTENTS 


I 

PAGE 

HOW I CAME TO SANDILANDS 7 

II 

THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 

I . The Vicar of Sandilands 23 

11 . An Old Maid’s Story 37 

III. Miss Patience goes Home . . . . 53 

III 

THE TWO MOTHERS 

I. The Mistress of Kingsdene 73 

II. Naboth’s Vineyard 89 

III. A Little Rift 106 

IV. Penelope’s Web 120 

V. Transformation 134 

IV 

A WOMAN’S FAITH 

I. A Stranger at the Hen and Chickens 151 

II. The Wild Man of the Woods 164 

V 

THE ORDEAL OF HANNAH MARKHAM 

I. Nance Reed’s Daughter 181 

II . A Dumb Devil 194 

III. How the Devil was Cast Out 209 

5 


6 


CONTENTS 


VI 

THE TIN SHANTY 

PAGE 

I. A Red Tam-o’-Shanter 229 

II . An Ugly Heroine 246 

III. Jack’s Victory 262 

VII 

THE AFTERMATH 279 


I 

HOW I CAME TO SAND I LANDS 




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^. A 


HOW 1 CAME TO SANDILANDS 


As we journey on in life we are conscious of sudden 
strong sympathies which draw us almost irresistibly 
out of our narrow grooves and impel us in some con- 
trary direction. 

Sometimes it is a book that appeals to us ; some 
glowing thought newly coined in a regal mint, which 
seems stamped ineffaceably on our memory ; some 
truth, like the Syrian arrow of old, drawn at a venture, 
which pierces through our armour ; or it may be the 
clear human eyes of some stranger, whom we meet on 
the edge of a crowd, and who speaks to us kindly in 
passing ; we travel on, and yet that brief encounter 
has made our life richer. 

Or, again, it may be some place that attracts us with 
irresistible force ; some little spot of earth which seems 
fairer to us than other places ; it has homely features 
that make us remember our childhood, a subtle 
fragrance of far-off days that seems to pervade and 
hallow it. This was how I felt when I first saw Sandi- 
lands ; when the scent of the firs, and the warmth of 
the sunset, and the sweet chiming of the church-bells 
seemed to blend together, as I sat at the window of the 
inn, a dusty, weary traveller, a little battered and jaded 
with a forty years’ wandering in the wilderness of life. 

I had come to Sandilands for one night ; someone 
had mentioned it to me carelessly. “ It is a pretty vil- 
lage,” he had said, “and there is a view that is worth 

9 


lo HOW I CAME TO SANDILANDS 


seeing, and if you are fond of sketching you might stay 
a few hours on your way from Brentwood ; my wife 
always says that Sandilands reminds her of the happy 
valley where Rasselas and his brothers lived.” 

One has not quite forgotten one’s schooldays at forty, 
and I still nourish a secret penchant for Dr. Johnson’s 
old romance ; for I agree with Alphonso of Aragon, 
‘ ‘ Old wood to burn, old wine to drink, old friends to 
trust, old authors to read.” I was in the mood to take 
advice, and so one June evening I found myself at 
Sandilands. I had come for one night ; I remained 
ten years ; until every house held a friend for me ; and 
when the children smiled back at me on their way to 
school, there was not one I had not held in my arms on 
the day of their baptism. 

“The little lady up at Fir Cottage” was what they 
called me, but those who knew me best and had grown 
to love me were more apt to say ‘ ‘ the little Sister. ’ ’ I 
think, if I remember rightly, the name originated with 
the Vicar. I had asked him to witness some paper and 
had just signed my name, Clare Merrick. ‘ * Oh, ’ ’ he 
said, looking at me blankly, ‘ ‘ Patience told me that 
your name was Catherine.” 

‘ ‘ No,. I belong to the poor Clares, ’ ’ I returned. The 
little joke would have fallen flat with any one but the 
Vicar, but of course he knew all about St. Francis of 
Assisi, so his eyes only twinkled slightly as he took the 
pen. 

“The little Sister would be sorely missed in Sandi- 
lands, ’ ’ he said in the genial way that belonged to him, 
for though he spoke little his silence seemed to hold a 
perpetual benison. 

‘ ‘ Even the poor Clares had their work cut out for 


HOW I CAME TO SANDILANDS 


II 


them.” I had said it a little bitterly, but the Vicar’s 
smile, and the kindly gleam in his grey eyes as he 
looked down at me, seemed to heal up the old sore. 

Many a long year before a girl had strayed by mis- 
take into an Eden not intended for her. Through a 
grievous mistake she had believed herself beloved, and 
it had seemed to her for a few short days as though the 
heavens were not too large to contain her bliss. She 
had so hungered and thirsted for love, she had known 
such lonely hours and so many disappointments, and 
when a voice said, ‘ ‘ Come up higher, ’ ’ it seemed to her 
as though the music of the spheres were sounding in 
her ears. 

And so — ^ah, poor Clare ! — this girl gazed in at the 
open door and saw the roses of Eden growing ; roses 
red with passion and white with purity, and she stretched 
out her hand, the foolish child, but the cruel thorns 
only pierced her palm. “Not for you — never for you’ ’ 
— and then there was a laugh, and the gate clanged in 
her face, and the careless footsteps passed on. Was it 
a mistake ? Had she only dreamed it ? Alas, there 
are some dreams so bitter that they haunt even our 
waking hours. 

This was how the little Sister strayed into Sandilands, 
a mere waif and stray of humanity, not rich in this 
world’s goods, and yet not poor, with sufficient to keep 
herself and help others. 

The cottage where I lived was perched high above 
the village, and was owned by a young widow, at least 
every one in Sandilands said Bessie Martin was a widow, 
though she always refused to own herself one, and her 
children still prayed for their poor father at sea. 

She was a tall buxom young woman with a soft drawl 


12 HOW I CAME TO SANDILANDS 


in her voice that seemed to appeal to one’s sympathy, 
and she had pleasant homely ways. I had fallen in 
love with her when I had first seen her in her grey sun- 
bonnet drawing water at the little well with her two 
blue-eyed boys beside her ; and as I walked up the 
steep zigzag path past the little garden plots, each with 
its clean-littered pigsty ; and saw Fir Cottage with the 
honeysuckle festooning the rude wooden verandah, and 
the smooth little grassplot shut in with a thick laurel 
hedge, I felt I had reached a haven of refuge. 

It was so still and tranquil. A little lane led into 
the fir woods that covered the crest of the hill behind 
the cottage ; everywhere their soft blue-blackness 
seemed to close in the horizon. Standing by the 
laurel hedge one looked down over the roofs of other 
cottages at the tiny village green, the quiet inn, and 
the house adjoining, and the beautiful church with its 
lich gate and grand background of firs ; a long road 
stretched dimly into the distance ; Kingsdene, the big 
house on the opposite hill, loomed in stately seclusion 
above the village ; everywhere steep white roads 
seemed to wind through the fir woods ; the inn closed 
the view, but beyond, as I knew well, lay the valley 
with its pleasant homesteads. From Fir Cottage the 
Vicarage was not visible ; it stood a little lower down 
the road, a grey roomy house with a comfortable bow- 
windowed drawing-room opening on to a tennis-lawn. 

That was the best of Sandilands, it had its reserves 
and surprises, you could not see it all at once. That 
long road, for example, that led past the white gates 
of Kingsdene, would take you to the principal shop, 
Crampton’s Stores, as they called it, and the big well, 
and the “ Silverdale Tavern,” and so on, to the Post 


HOW I CAME TO SANDILANDS 


13 


Office and Audley End, with its score of trim cottages, 
each standing pleasantly in its own garden ground. 

I remember one afternoon an old friend, one of the 
few I possess, came to spend a long summer’s day 
with me in my sylvan retreat. 

In youth one’s heart is a little callous and elastic ; 
friends are plentiful, if lovers are scarce, and grow on 
every bush ; but as one grows old how one yearns for 
the faces that smiled on us when we were young ; for 
those comrades who stood by us when the fight 
opened ; before we had grown jaded and weary and 
dazed with the din and the rush of life. 

Is it not Longfellow who says, ‘ ‘ How good it is, 
the hand of an old friend’ ’ ? — so it was always a red- 
letter day when Florence Mortimer could spend a few 
hours from her hospital work to run down to Sandi- 
lands. 

It was on a September day when she paid her first 
visit, and I was glad and proud to see how much she 
was struck with the place. She was by no means an 
enthusiastic person, she had seen too much of the 
grim realities of life to keep the freshness of her youth- 
ful illusions ; nevertheless for the first half hour her 
conversation was quite staccato with enthusiasm. 

Now it was the warm resinous breath of the firs that 
charmed her, or the sweetness of the honeysuckle 
porch. 

‘ ‘ No wonder you wrote such charming descriptions, 
Clare. I had no idea Surrey was so lovely. Sandi- 
lands — I never heard of the place before ; how many 
inhabitants do you say there are? Six or seven 
hundred ? Dear me, I cannot see more than seven 
or eight houses. Talk of a lodge in a garden of 


14 HOW I CAME TO SANDILANDS 

cucumbers — there seems nothing but a church, an inn, 
and fir woods. To be sure, there is that big house 
opposite — it looks quite a mansion : a palatial resi- 
dence, that is what they would call it in the papers.’* 

Then again, “ I like those steep white roads winding 
through the dark woods, they must look like silver 
ladders in the moonlight. But they are hard to climb ; 
look how slowly that old man with his bundle of brush- 
wood seems to be creeping on like an overladen ant !’ ’ 

‘ ‘ That is my favourite walk, Flo ; it leads to that 
wonderful view, Sandy Point, of which I told you.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, to be sure ! I remember your description ; 
you have the pen of a ready writer. No ! don’t 
thank me for the compliment, it was Sister Accident 
who said that. But, Clare, you did not say half 
enough about the beauty of your church, who would 
expect to see anything so grand in a village? It 
looks like a great white ark, set against all that black- 
ness, and there is the dove only minus the olive branch, 
flying out of the porch. ’ ’ But it was only one of the 
fantail pigeons from the Inn. 

Mrs. Martin brought out the little tea-table presently, 
and as we sat in our big beehive chairs under the shade 
of a sycamore I would not have exchanged my summer 
parlour for the grandest apartments in Windsor Castle, 
and I am sure Florence agreed with me. She grew a 
little thoughtful presently, as though the shadow of 
some memory had crossed the sunlight — these cross 
lights, these sudden alternations of shadows and sun- 
shine, are so common in life. 

“I am so glad you have found this little haven of 
rest,” she said at last, rather wistfully ; “it just suits 
you somehow ; of course you have not been here 


HOW I CAME TO SANDILANDS 


15 


long enough to make many friends, but I know your 
social proclivities. Before long you will be acquainted 
with every one in Sandilands. ’ ^ And Florence was 
right. 

But her next speech made me smile a little. 

‘ ‘ Do you think people are quite so unhappy in the 
country? Oh, of course, there is always sickness and 
death and bad times, but,” in rather a pathetic tone, 
‘ ‘ it must be easier for people to be good — there must 
be fewer temptations.” 

“Perhaps so,” I returned; “but human nature is 
often its own tempter. When I have lived here a little 
longer I daresay I shall be able to answer your ques- 
tion better ; for I shall know more about my neigh- 
bours’ troubles. No doubt Sandilands has its saints 
and its sinners, its comedies and its tragedies ; but it 
has one advantage, there is room to breathe, and there 
is no hoarse, jarring sound of traffic to deaden the birds’ 
music. Now if we are to walk to Sandy Point it is 
time for us to start.” And this closed the conversa- 
tion. 

Fir Cottage had been built by Bessie Martin’s father, 
and the old couple had lived in it until their death. 
When Will Martin started on his last disastrous voyage 
Bessie and her two boys came back to live in the old 
home. Little Ben was only an infant then, and David 
a sturdy, rosy-cheeked urchin of three. Her father 
had had his first paralytic seizure, and her mother was 
growing old and feeble, and needed a daughter’s care. 
Bessie’s hands were full in those days, but she was 
strong and willing, and no work came amiss to her. 
“Our Bessie has been a blessing to us from the hour I 
brought her into the world,” her mother would say. 


i6 HOW I CAME TO SANDILANDS 


“and I shall tell Will so when I meet him up yonder.’* 
But Bessie always shook her head and turned away in 
silence when her mother made these speeches. 

‘ ‘ Mother and dad always would have it that Will was 
dead,” she said once to me, “but I shall never bring 
myself to believe it. I am lonesome enough without 
that, and one of these days, please God, Will will 
come back to me. Often and often my Davie has said 
to me when he has seen me a bit down and out of heart, 
‘ Don*t be unhappy, mammie. I am going to pray 
hard to-night that dad may come home to-morrow,’ 
and then he would shut his eyes so tight, and I could 
see him gripping his little hands together, ‘ and please, 
dear Lord, ’ he would say, ‘ do let dad come back to 
us quick, for poor mammie is fretting so, and Benjy 
and me can’t comfort her nohow.’ Times upon times 
I have heard him say that, the darling.” 

Bessie Martin was rather reserved by nature, and it 
was not easy for her to give her confidence. She came 
of a good old north-country stock, and now and then 
she would use some phrase that she had certainly not 
learnt in Surrey. ‘ ‘ Aye, we must bide the bitterment’ ’ 
— that was a favourite expression with her, and now and 
then, “ Hurry means worry, we must just summer and 
winter it and keep quiet. ’ ’ 

I heard most of Bessie’s sad history from old Mrs. 
Martin, down at the long white cottage at the bottom of 
our path. She was a good old soul, a little garrulous 
at times, but wonderfully kind-hearted, and she was 
never weary of singing Bessie’s praises. 

‘ ‘ She was a good daughter, a better never lived, ’ ’ she 
would say. ‘ ‘ When Will Martin first came down here 
courting, I remember she would promise him nothing 


HOW I CAME TO SANDILANDS 


17 


till the old people had given their blessing ; and yet 
Will was as fine-looking a young fellow as you would 
see on a summer’s day, and he had the light heart of 
the sailor. Bessie was a sonsie lass too — not to say 
handsome — but buxom and well set up ; and then she 
had a way with her ; you felt you could trust her 
through thick and thin. Not that she was ever much 
of a talker ; it was Will who had the soft wily tongue, 
but then they suited each other down to the ground, 
and he was just foolish about her. Poor dear fellow, 
he was a sort of cousin of mine, that’s how he first 
came to Sandilands. But maybe I am wearying you ;’ ’ 
but I hastened to assure her to the contrary, and that 
nothing interested me like stories in real life, and then 
she went on contentedly. 

“Will’s mother was alive then. She was a sickly 
sort of body and very peevish, but being a widow- 
woman, nothing would satisfy Will but they must make 
their home with her. Bessie never liked London, and 
she found her mother-in-law uncommonly trying. But 
she did her duty by her, and I have heard Will say that 
she died with her hand in Bessie’s. 

‘ ‘ Ben was only three months old then. It was just 
before Will got his berth on the Arethusa. Bessie was 
a little low and weak just then, from her long nursing, 
and it was Will who proposed that she should take the 
two boys with her to Sandilands. 

“ ‘ I shall know where to find you,’ he said that last 
morning. ‘I took my sweetheart from Fir Cottage, 
and it is there I will look for my wife and chicks when 
I come back.’ Poor Will I Those were his very 
words, and before six weeks were over the Arethusa had 
struck against a reef and sunk with every soul on board. ’ ’ 


1 8 HOW I CAME TO SANDILANDS 


And then she told the few particulars that were gleaned 
of the ill-fated vessel. 

‘ ‘ But Bessie will not believe that her husband is 
dead,” I observed, when Mrs. Martin had stopped to 
take her breath. 

“No, she is a bit perverse on that point. I have 
heard her mother argue with her until Bessie would 
fling her apron over her head and have a good cry. 
But for all that she would never own her mother was 
right. ‘ If Will were dead I should feel it, somehow,’ 
she has said to me more than once, for being Will’s 
cousin we were always the best of friends. ‘ Do you 
suppose, Martha, that my Will would be lying face 
downwards at the bottom of the ocean and I should 
not know it in my heart. In my dreams he is just his 
old living self ; sometimes I can hear his voice quite 
plainly. But what is the use of talking — one must just 
bide the bitterment,’ and then she would sigh a little 
heavily and go back to the cottage. ’ ’ 

How strange it was in the face of all that evidence 
that Bessie Martin should still maintain her husband 
was alive ! I had heard about the Arethusa ; she had 
struck against an unsuspected coral reef, but to the 
best of my knowledge there had been no survivors to 
tell the tale. 

By an odd coincidence Mrs. Martin’s words were 
corroborated that very evening. 

I had gone into the kitchen to give some order and 
as usual found Bessie sitting at the open door knitting, 
with David learning his lessons beside her. Ben was 
in his cot fast asleep. It was Bessie’s rest hour ; all 
day long from earliest daybreak she had been busily 
engaged in house and garden. More than once I had 


HOW I CAME TO SANDILANDS 


19 


noticed that the blue and grey socks she was knitting 
were too large for David. 

‘ ‘ Are you making those for a friend ?’ ’ I asked a little 
curiously, but to my surprise a sudden blush crossed 
her face. 

“Yes, Miss Merrick, they are for a friend surely — 
for my best friend I might say, for they are for Will. 
That is his chest,” pointing to a handsome Spanish 
mahogany chest of drawers that I had often admired. 
“Will will find all his things ready for him,” and then 
with a sudden impulse she rose and opened one drawer 
after another and showed me the neat piles of flannel 
shirts, and knitted socks, and daintily stitched cuffs. 
All these five years, while people called her a widow, 
she had spent her rest hours in working for the husband 
she believed to be alive. 

I think the tears in my eyes touched her, she was 
not used to this sort of silent sympathy, for she said 
slowly in that soft drawl of hers, “The neighbours 
think I am just doited, though no one, not even 
Martha, has seen what I have shown you just now ; — 
but it keeps me happy and prevents me from brooding. 
Oh, I have my bad times,” she continued in a low 
voice, so that David could not hear her, “when I am 
just moithered to know what my poor lad is doing, for 
he is wandering over the face of the earth somewhere. 
Sometimes I fear he is shut up in some place from 
which he cannot get out. It was through David read- 
ing Robinson Crusoe that I got that into my head, but 
it is my favourite book, too. Sometimes at night I 
wake up all in a shiver, and think how lonesome Will 
must find it on some desert island with nothing but 
wild creatures round him, and how he must sicken for 


20 


HOW I CAME TO SANDILANDS 


a sight of me and the children. But then, when 
trouble comes we just must bear it, and as long as I 
feel that the same world holds us both I have no cause 
to despair ’ but as she turned away there was a sad 
yearning look in her grey eyes that told of many an 
hour of heart-break. 

“Are there any limits to a woman’s love and faith ?’ ’ 
I thought, as I went back to my room ; but there was 
a sudden weight at my heart as I sat alone by the 
fireside. 

The tragedies of life are sometimes less sad than its 
comedies, and in my secret soul that night I envied 
Bessie Martin. She had not asked for bread and re- 
ceived a stone, and her youth had not been nourished 
on empty husks ; love had crowned her with its highest 
honours : the sacred privileges of wife and mother had 
been bestowed upon her, and what widowhood could 
deprive her of the happy past ! “As long as I feel that 
the same world holds us both I have no cause to de- 
spair,” she had said, but I would have added more than 
that. For when one’s beloved has entered one of the 
many mansions it is as though familiar hands were 
making a new home ready for us, and when our call 
comes, surely the face we most loved will welcome us 
upon the threshold ! 


THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 





I 


THE VICAR OF SANDILANDS 

When the Rev. Evelyn Wentworth first came to 
Sandilands the new church was being built, and services 
were held in the little Iron room behind the schools. 

The Vicar took a great deal of interest in the work : 
every morning he would leave his beloved books and 
stand for an hour at a time watching the bricklayers 
and the stone-masons, and later on ' the decorators, 
with such a fixed and absorbed attention that Job 
Longman, who was a bit of a wag, -suggested to Silas 
Stubbs that the parson must be thinking of changing 
his trade ; but after a time they got used to his silent 
presence among them, and would go on chattering and 
whistling over their work as though he were not there. 

The Vicar of Sandilands was a grand-looking man 
of about forty. In his youth he must have been ex- 
tremely handsome : his features were finely cut, and 
there was an aristocratic air about him ; and he carried 
his head nobly ; but it could not be denied that for the 
first year or two the younger and poorer members of 
his flock were greatly in awe of him. 

How are folks to pass the time of day and grumble 
comfortably at the weather when the Vicar is holding 
his head high and saying, ‘Ah, just so, my good 
friend,’ in that aggravating way of his?” and Susan 
Stukeley gave a vicious dab at her youngest boy’s cap 
as she spoke : ‘ ‘ Where are your manners, you good- 

23 


24* : THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 

for-nought? don’t you see the lady is sitting in father’s 
chair? But there, dear heart, we can’t all be blessed 
with a taking manner ; and if the Vicar is high Miss 
Patience has a deal of affability, though to be sure, 
poor soul, she is as deaf as a post. ’ ’ 

Perhaps the Vicar was a little too stately and silent 
to suit the tastes of the simple flock to whom he was 
called to minister, but they grew to understand him 
better in time ; and though perhaps it might be true 
that he kept his eloquence for the pulpit and for those 
talks by the study fire, when his friend Cornish came 
down to the Vicarage, yet there never was a time 
when he refused to smile at a little child, or that the 
veriest cur on the village green would not try to lick 
his hand, and children and dogs know when a person 
is to be trusted. 

People marvelled at first that a man like Mr. Went- 
worth should be content to bury himself in a quiet 
Surrey village ; and there was a great deal of idle 
gossip and conjecture, especially among the women 
folk. 

Mr. Wentworth was such a striking-looking man, 
they would say ; it was so strange that he had never 
married ; he had private means too, for there was 
actually a manservant at the Vicarage : a dark, quiet 
man, almost as reserved as his master, who had been 
his scout at Oxford ; and then Miss Patience always 
sat down to dinner every night in a silk or satin 
gown. 

Miss Batesby, who lived in a sm^ll house at the end 
of the valley and who knew everything about her 
neighbours, had soon found out all that there was to 
know about the new Vicar, and had retailed her choice 


THE VICAR OF SANDILANDS 2^5 

modicums of knowledge in strict confidence to at least 
half a dozen intimate friends. 

Mr. Wentworth was a fellow of Magdalen, and still 
retained his rooms, overlooking the deer park and 
Addison’s Walk ; he was a great bookworm and was 
in writing some Ecclesiastical History ; that 
very odd-looking man who came down so often to the 
Vicarage was a famous Greek scholar and held some 
professorship ; he was a fellow of Oriel ; they had been 
at Eton together, and had rowed in the same boat. 
No one knew how Miss Batesby gleaned all her in- 
formation, but as her conversation consisted mainly of 
questions people who disliked a perpetual catechism 
would try to rid themselves of this form of torment by 
telling her all they knew and sometimes a little more. 
Now and then her facts were sometimes garbled and 
distorted, but in the main she generally kept pretty 
closely to the truth ; as when she stated that Miss 
Patience was ten years older than her brother and had 
only kept his house since they came to Sandilands. 

It was true the Vicar’s celibacy baffled her, but after 
a time she hinted darkly that though he had never 
married he had certainly ^been engaged, and that the 
lady had jilted him, “and they do say,’’ continued 
Miss Batesby in that stagey whisper that she affected, 
‘ ‘ that it was the disappointment that drove him to his 
books~at one time there was a talk of his going to a 
big Liverpool parish. Oh, you need not look sur- 
prised, it was Mr. Saunders who told me that the 
living was offered him and he had accepted it, and 
then all at once he changed his mind and went abroad. 
I think he was ill or out of health, for Miss Patience 
spent one winter with him at Cairo, and then when 


26 


THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 


they returned he settled to come to Sandilands ; be- 
cause it was quiet and retired, and he could do his 
work ; and then Miss Patience gave up her house — 
she had a pretty house in Kensington — and came here 
with him.” 

There could be no doubt that Miss Patience ruled 
well and wisely over her brother’s household, and that 
as far as creature comforts were concerned Mr. Went- 
worth lacked nothing that womanly tenderness or 
thought could devise. Nothing was ever out of order 
at the Vicarage ; the meals were always cooked to per- 
fection. Barry, the ci-devant scout, who acted as but- 
ler and valet and confidential servant, was never remiss 
in his duties, and not only the tennis-lawn was rolled 
every day, but even the shrubbery-walks were kept 
free from dead leaves ; everything in house and gar- 
den bearing the same stamp of Miss Patience’s exqui- 
site sense of order. 

Even the Vicar’s study, that sanctum sanctorum^ was 
not free from her supervision and delicate manipula- 
tion ; no other hand being permitted to dust and re- 
ari^nge the piles of MSS. on the writing-table, or to re- 
store the books heaped in wild confusion round his 
chair to their rightful position on the shelves. 

“You are a privileged person. Miss Wentworth,” Mr. 
Cornish would say as he saw her busy with her feather 
dusting-brush ; “Wentworth must have developed un- 
common amiability of late years, or you have learnt 
how to manage him. Now it is more than my scout’s 
life is worth to touch a thing on my table. ’ ’ But Miss 
Patience, who had only heard half this sentence, shook 
her head with her soft shy smile and went on with her 
labour of love. 


THE VICAR OF SANDILANDS 


27 


There was no need for her to learn to manage him, 
who had been his little mother since her own dying 
mother had confided him to her care ; she had only 
been thirteen then, and Evelyn a fine sturdy boy of 
three, but never could Patience Wentworth forget that 
sudden rush of maternal tenderness that filled her girlish 
bosom as she received that sacred charge. 

“Take care of dear little Evelyn, if you love me. 
Patience ; be a mother to him in my place. ’ ’ How 
plainly she could hear the weak pleading tones, and 
how she had answered in a voice, half- choked with 
sobs — 

‘ ‘ Do not be afraid, mammie darling, I will never leave 
him or father either. ’ ’ And as long as they needed her 
Patience kept her word. 

‘ ‘ If Evelyn does not marry I shall take care of his 
house for him,” she would say, after her father’s death. 

‘ ‘ I am only waiting until he makes up his mind what to 
do,” and so, when the living of Sandilands came to him, 
she quietly gave up her pretty house and went down 
with him to the Vicarage. 

“ It beats me how Mr. Wentworth can put up with a 
companion like Miss Patience,” Miss Batesby would say 
sometimes ; “a week of such evenings would drive me 
wild. She was always a little deaf, even when she was 
young ; they say it was the result of scarlet-fever, but 
now she hears hardly anything unless people scream at 
her. The Todhunters were dining at the Vicarage 
last evening, ’ ’ she continued, ‘ ‘ you know they are'always 
asked when Mr. Cornish is staying there, and Mrs. Tod- 
hunter was only saying how sad it was. No one said 
half a dozen words to Miss Patience at dinner, only the 
Vicar, and Mr. Cornish gave her a nod now and then ; 


28 


THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 


but she looked as contented and serene as possible, and 
just talked herself in her quiet, subdued voice, saying 
pleasant little things to first one and then the other, as 
though to assure them that she did not feel a bit left out 
in the cold ; and all the time Mrs. Todhunter said she 
was looking like a picture in her grey satin and a little 
cap of old point lace. ’ ’ 

Perhaps it was owing to her increasing deafness and 
her delicate state of health, but certainly Miss Patience 
looked older than she really was, and long before she 
was fifty she had grown into old-fashioned elderly ways. 

Though her hair was soft and abundant, and only 
faintly streaked with grey, nothing would induce Miss 
Patience to discard her caps ; her gowns too, although 
they were always rich in materials, were certainly not 
cut in the prevailing fashion. TJiere was an old-world 
touch about her, something that reminded one of the 
rose pourri in the big jars that stood on either side of 
the fireplace in her drawing-room, a far-off fragrance 
of a girlhood that had grown old and that yet was eter- 
nally young ; of a life that had been lived for others, 
and that had never known the ordinary vicissitudes of a 
woman’s experience, and which had left her at fifty-three 
a simple maidenly gentlewoman. 

‘ ‘ Patience is the oldest and the youngest woman I 
know,” her brother said once ; “in knowledge of the 
world she is a perfect infant. I have heard her say the 
most outrageous things in perfectly good faith ; she has 
made my hair rise on more than one occasion, and yet 
I have never known her to be fooled by the most wily 
of scamps ; it must be instinct. What is it, Cornish ? 
for as far as knowledge of evil is concerned, she is a 
divinely inspired idiot.” 


THE VICAR OF SANDILANDS 


29 


Mr. Cornish only shrugged his shoulders — he was 
filling his favourite old meerschaum with some choice 
tobacco, which always was put ready for him in a 
special corner by Miss Patience’s own hand. It was 
a delicate and engrossing occupation, and an assenting 
grunt was all he could vouchsafe in answer to his 
friend’s remark, but Mr. Wentworth seemed quite sat- 
isfied. 

The study was certainly the best apartment in the 
Vicarage. It was a large, well-proportioned room, 
with a wide bay window ; and in winter or summer no 
shutters or blinds were ever allowed to shut out the 
night landscape. 

To Miss Patience the outside darkness was a dreary 
and forlorn prospect that gave her an inward shudder 
every time she crossed the threshold ; in her opinion it 
would have been better to have drawn the warm-toned 
crimson curtains, but Mr. Wentworth insisted on having 
his own way. 

“You may coddle yourself as much as you like in the 
drawing-room, ’ ’ he would say ; ‘ ‘ but I like the feeling 
that I have plenty of space and air ;’ ’ and on moonlight 
nights he would pace the room, now and then pausing 
to enjoy the wonderful contrast — the silvery track that 
lay across the tennis-lawn, and the weird blackness of 
the skeleton firs, stretching their bare leafless branches ; 
each grim form standing out clear and distinct in the 
soft white light. All the available wall space, with the 
exception of the fireplace and window, was filled from 
ceiling to floor with book-shelves. Many of the books 
were valuable — rare old editions that he had collected 
from time to time — and more than once Mr. Cornish 
had been heard to say that he never felt more tempted 


30 


THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 


to break the Tenth Commandment than when he en- 
tered Wentworth’s study. A knee-hole writing-table 
and some remarkably comfortable easy-chairs com- 
prised the rest of the furniture. On the carved over- 
mantel stood an exquisite Parian bust of Clyde, and 
some silver cups, evidently relics of schooldays. 

Douglas Cornish was a complete contrast to his 
friend ; he was two or three years older than the Vicar, 
but most people would have thought that there was a 
greater difference of age between them^ 

He was a tall man, and years of study had given him 
a slight stoop, but at times when he was animated and 
interested he would straighten himself and lift up his 
head, and one would note with surprise that he was as 
well-proportioned as the Vicar. 

His hair had grown thin about the temples, and this 
gave the impression of baldness ; and he had a curious 
habit of partially closing his eyes as he talked and then 
opening them at unexpected moments. Mr. Went- 
worth used to call it ‘ ‘ springing the mine, ’ ’ and some- 
times it had a startling effect on people, for the dark 
eyes were as keen and steady as a hawk’s, and yet with 
a benignant gleam in them. 

The friendship between the two men had dated from 
early boyhood ; they had lived with the same dame at 
Eton, and had fagged for the same red-haired heir to 
ducal honours. 

At Oxford their rooms had been on the same stair- 
case, and they had rowed in the eights together ; and 
when one became fellow of Magdalen and the other 
fellow of Oriel and a college tutor, their sympathy and 
similarity of tastes seemed to increase, •and though, 
with the mauvaise honte of Englishmenn, either would 


THE VICAR OF SANDILANDS 


31 


have owned the fact, each had grown indispensable to 
the other. When the Vicar had secured some fine old 
first edition that he had long coveted he always tele- 
graphed his success to Oriel, and as often as not the 
return telegram would be, “Delighted ; expect me by 
usual train to-morrow to dine and sleep. ’ ’ 

“ I knew that would fetch him,” the Vicar would say 
to himself, rubbing his hands with glee ; “ now we shall 
have a glorious night of it and then Barry would be 
summoned and told that the blue room was to be got 
ready for Mr. Cornish, and there would be a long and 
patient debate with his sister over the memi. 

No one in Sandilands would have recognised their 
silent and stately Vicar if they could have listened to 
him as he and his friend talked on the subjects so dear 
to both. 

Now it was some difficulty that he had encountered 
in his work ; some conflicting statements that he 
needed to be sifted and verified ; and in which his 
friend could give him valuable help ; at other times it 
was he who listened with interest while Cornish des- 
canted on Greek tragedies or on the success of some 
favourite pupil, politics, social economy, Greek hex- 
ameters, ethics, German philosophy, and myths — 
nothing came amiss to them. At times they would 
have rare arguments, in which they would grow hot 
and pugnacious, and neither would yield by a hair’s- 
breadth ; at such moments the Vicar seemed to grow 
taller as he paced to and fro on the study floor, but 
Douglas Cornish never laid down his meerschaum, and 
his eyes would be nearly closed as he uttered some 
brief trenchant sentence that seemed, like the sword of 
Hercules, ready to cut the knot. 


32 


THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 


You are wrong, Wentworth, you have forgotten we 
have the clear testimony of Paulinus and then the 
blue gleam of his hawk’s eyes would flash at his op- 
ponent and he would walk to the bookcase and take 
down the book and show him the passage he needed ; 
at such times the victory was generally with Cornish. 

But it was not always that they argued on deep and 
abstruse subjects ; sometimes Barry, polishing his silver 
and glass in his little pantry close by, would hear a 
clear boyish laugh suddenly ring out across the passage : 
they were in the play-fields again, or in the procession 
of boats on the glorious fourth of June ; the eternal 
boyhood which lingers in every manly breast had 
waked to sudden life. 

Or they were indulging in reminiscences of their 
youth, delightful and memorable events of their under- 
graduate days — that never-to-be-forgotten hour when 
Oxford won the boat-race ; that day of days when they 
had pulled together up the long course from Putney 
Bridge to Mortlake, while the frantic crowd cheered 
them from the towing path ; and the steamers in their 
wake churned the placid river into troubled waves ; 
and the grey towers of old Fulham Church stood out 
grandly in the March sunlight ; the days before the 
new stone bridge was built, when the old toll- house was 
still in existence, and the old-fashioned inn by the river 
was painted blue in honour of both Universities. 

Sometimes Miss Patience, passing down the passage 
carrying her silver candlestick, would stop outside the 
study door as the sound would reach even her dim 
ears, and a faint roseleaf flush would come to her pale 
cheeks. 

“ That was Evelyn laughing,” she would say to her- 


THE VICAR OF SANDILANDS 


33 


self, ‘ ‘ but I am sure Mr. Cornish was laughing too — how 
happy they seem ’ and then a wistful smile would come 
to her lips, and there would be a look in the soft eyes 
that spoke of some secret sadness. 

Chief, the Vicar’s handsome collie, always lay 
stretched out upon the rug before the fire, with his 
nose upon his paws and his bright eyes fixed on his 
master ; only if he laughed a little too hilariously to 
suit the dog’s fastidious instinct. Chief would rise and 
stalk slowly to the window and stand on his hind legs 
looking out on the darkness. 

‘ ‘ Chief is ashamed of his master ; look at his con- 
temptuous attitude, Cornish, is it not a perfect study of 
canine grace ? Come back, old fellow, don’ t be sulky, 
and I will promise not to do it any more ;’ ’ and then 
the Vicar would take thej glossy head between his knees 
and look down into the loving deep eyes of his favour- 
ite. ‘ ‘ Chief, you are right, and we are old fools, but it 
was something to have lived such days ; we drank a 
good draught of the pure elixir, and we drank it deep, 
though we little thought then it had to last us our 
life and then the Vicar sighed and relapsed into 
silence. 

Perhaps it was transmission of thought, or some sud- 
den beat of the wave sympathy between him and his 
sister, for Miss Patience’s little velvet slippers had only 
just pattered along the passage when the Vicar said a 
little abruptly, ‘ ‘ Cornish, I saw you were observing my 
sister rather narrowly at dinner ; do you think that she 
is looking as well as usual?” Mr. Wentworth spoke 
in a hesitating manner, and there was a distinct note of 
anxiety in his voice. 

‘ ‘ What makes you ask me that ?’ ’ returned his friend 
3 


34 


THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 


with equal abruptness, and any one who knew the man 
would have seen that he was desirous to fence with the 
question. 

“Well, it was Miss Batesby who put it in my head,’’ 
replied the Vicar slowly. “ She stayed behind at the 
district meeting with her usual list of grievances, and 
then she said that several people had remarked to her 
on my sister’s fragile appearance, and that she feared 
that she was losing strength perceptibly. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Humph ! the aggrieved parishioner, Miss Batesby ; 
that is the plump little woman with prominent eyes, 
who is generally loafing round the vestry-door after 
week-day services, and who has a finger in every pie 
in Sandilands ; don’t heed her, Wentworth — ^when I 
want reliable information I should certainly not apply 
to Miss Batesby.” 

“Oh, she is not a bad little person,” returned the 
Vicar quickly ; ‘ ‘ she is good-natured and kind-hearted, 
and Patience is her prime favourite ; but, Cornish, you 
have not answered my question.” 

‘ ‘ Miss Wentworth is certainly a little thinner, ’ ’ replied 
the other, ‘ ‘ but I see no other difference. I was mar- 
velling at her cheerfulness and placidity at dinner ; she 
could hear nothing of our conversation, but there was 
no trace of irritation or impatience in her manner. By 
the bye, Wentworth, I have been meaning to tell you 
something all the evening, but I have found no oppor- 
tunity. I saw Miss Brett yesterday. ’ ’ 

The Vicar had been pacing the room after his usual 
fashion while he talked ; “ his evening prowls,” as he 
called them, had already worn the carpet almost thread- 
bare. He had reached the window as his friend com- 
pleted his sentence, and for a few seconds his attitude 


THE VICAR OF SANDILANDS 


35 

was almost statuesque in its rigidity, then he wheeled 
slowly round and came towards the fire. 

‘ ‘ All right, go on, old fellow, I am listening * and he 
dropped into his easy chair as though he had grown 
suddenly weary. 

There was a quick, comprehensive flash, and then 
Mr. Cornish’s half closed eyes were directed to the 
blazing pine log. 

“ I was at the Metropolitan Station at Baker Street 
early in the afternoon ; my word, Wentworth, I think 
Charon’s boat would be preferable and decidedly more 
sanitary than those infernal tunnels, pregnant with sul- 
phurous odors — but I will spare you a regular British 
tirade. Just before the train came in, I saw a tall 
woman in a peculiar garb, that I seemed to recognise, 
come swiftly towards me ; you know her grand walk, 
and the way she holds her head” — here there was a 
slight, almost imperceptible contraction of the Vicar’s 
brow. ‘ ‘ Why, in the name of all that is mysterious, 
does she wear that ridiculous dress ? She is neither 
deaconess nor sister, and yet her long grey cloak 
and poke bonnet savour of both. I suppose even a 
good, highminded woman like Miss Brett has her pet 
vanities?” 

“ There is no vanity about it,” returned the Vicar, a 
little impatiently; “she told me herself that a dis- 
tinctive dress would be better for her work, and that 
she could not well carry out her scheme without it. 
All the other ladies wear it — the poor people call them 
the ‘ good ladies’ — though I believe she is Sister 
Marion among them. Well, go on, Cornish. I sup- 
pose she recognised you. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, dear, yes, she had her hand stretched out before 


36 THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 

she reached me. She wears well, Wentworth — I think 
she is handsomer than ever, in spite of the poke bonnet, 
but she looked a little tired too. ’ ’ 

“No doubt, she works hard enough for half a dozen 
women. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ She asked after your sister at once, and then she 
mentioned you. ‘ Is he well — quite well — and does he 
like Sandilands ?’ But before I could half answer her 
the train came up. I left her still standing on the plat- 
form, some miserable looking child who had lost her 
way, or her ticket, was crying and appealing to her, 
and she had already forgotten my existence. Now my 
pipe and story are finished, shall we shut up and go to 
bed ?’ ’ and here Douglas Cornish straightened himself 
with a portentous yawn. 

When the Vicar had his study to himself, he drew 
his chair closer to the fire, as though he had grown 
suddenly cold. 

“ Is he quite well ? And does he like Sandilands ?’ ’ 
he muttered to himself, and then again, as though he 
were following out some line of thought, ‘ ‘ the child 
would be all right if she appealed to her. Marion’s 
heart is big enough to hold the whole world — except 
one — except the one who most needs her.” 


II 


AN OLD MAID’S STORY 

In spite of the supreme interest that centres round 
each individual existence, and which makes a good 
biography one of the most fascinating of studies ; it 
cannot be denied that the events of many women’s 
lives might be summed up in half a dozen sentences. 
Sometimes it would seem as though some women are 
forever fingering a perpetual prelude ; and that the 
real symphony, with its wondrous harmonies and long 
drawn out sweetness, its subtle chords and melodies, is 
not played out here. 

Some baffling spirit, though without the flaming 
sword, bars their way to the paradise they are forever 
seeking. No one writes of these dim but .heroic lives 
that are often endured with such patience ; and little do 
these humble souls dream “ their daily life an angel’s 
theme, ’ ’ and yet perchance on heavenly pages such life 
stories may be traced in letters of gold. 

‘ ‘ Nothing ever happens to me, ’ ’ Patience Wentworth 
would say when she was young ; but she spoke in no 
complaining spirit. People who live in the lives of 
others have seldom time for their own grievances. It 
was not until youth had passed, and the freshness of 
her bloom had faded, that Patience had leisure to think 
about herself. 

To be a little mother at thirteen, and to tend and 
wait upon an ailing father, was enough to tax any 

37 


38 THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 

young girl’s strength and energies ; but Patience never 
complained that her burdens were too heavy for her ; 
and though more than one well-meaning friend hinted 
to Mr. Wentworth that his young daughter was over- 
exerting herself, and that it was clearly impossible for 
her to act as mistress of his house and carry on her 
own studies ; Patience soon convinced him to the con- 
trary. “I am as strong as a horse,” she would say, 
laughingly; “don’t listen to them, father dear; my 
lessons are just play to me,” and then she would trip 
away with a smile on her face, leaving him quite 
satisfied. 

Evelyn was only seven years old when their father 
died. He was a bright, winning boy, and Patience 
idolised him. She nearly broke her heart when he first 
went to school ; and when scarlet-fever attacked him 
during one vacation, she persisted, contrary to all 
advice, in helping to nurse him. 

Evelyn very soon recovered, but his sister, who had 
also sickened, lay for a long time at death’s door. 
People who knew her well said she was never quite the 
same afterwards, and that her constitution -was under- 
mined by the fever ; it was then that a slight deafness 
was first noticed, which increased later on. Patience 
bore her trouble very quietly, and said little about it, 
but it quenched her brightness, and long before she 
was thirty she had the precise, mature habits of middle 
age. 

Girls very little younger than herself would laugh at 
her for her old-maidish ways, and yet they loved her 
too. “Patience Wentworth is an old dear,” they 
would say, “but she is terribly antiquated in her 
notions ; there is almost a Puritan cut about her ; one 


AN OLD MAID’S STORY 


39 


must be up to date nowadays, if one is to be in the 
swim at all ; of course, it is her deafness ; she is so 
heavily handicapped, poor soul,” and then they would 
shake their heads in melancholy fashion. 

It was long before Patience lost all hope. She con- 
sulted one aurist after another, and tried all their reme- 
dies. It was on the nerves, one of them said, and for a 
long time Patience believed him ; she certainly heard 
better at times. When she was tired or had any men- 
tal strain on her, her hearing grew worse ! Certain 
voices, too, reached her more easily than others, and 
there was one voice that almost to the last could make 
itself understood. 

Patience never could remember when it was she first 
looked upon Douglas Cornish as her special friend. 

In Evelyn’s school-days he had not interested her. 
She had thought him gauche and abrupt, and secretiy 
marvelled at her brother’s infatuation. It was not until 
their undergraduate days that she began to form a 
favourable opinion of him, or to realise the seductive 
power of a strong man’s sympathy. 

One summer, one never-to-be-forgotten summer, 
Evelyn had coaxed his aunt, Mrs. Baldwin Went- 
worth, to bring down Patience for two or three weeks 
to Oxford. She was a good-natured woman, and after 
her husband’s death she had spent the greater part of 
her time with her niece, but her second marriage, a few 
years later, deprived Patience of her chaperonage. 

Evelyn had taken pleasant lodgings for them near 
Magdalen, and Patience, who was always perfectly 
happy in her brother’s society, enjoyed a few weeks 
of utter bliss. 

Oxford was always a delight to her. She loved 


40 


THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 


wandering through the college gardenings, past the 
grey old quadrangles ; the lawns of St. John’s, the 
lime Walk at Trinity, the lake and swans at Worces- 
cester, and the deer park and Addison’s Walk at Mag- 
dalen, were all dear to her. 

Evelyn would bring his friends to afternoon tea. 
Douglas Cornish was always one of them ; the two 
young men were inseparable, and one boy wag had 
christened them Damon and Pythias. ‘ ‘ They run in 
pairs, don’t you know. I. ^ive you my word. Miss 
Wentworth, if I see Cornish mooning down the High 
without your brother, I think something must be 
wrong. They are such chums, you see. ’ ’ But, as the 
youth rattled on, Patience only smiled, and there was 
a tired look in her gentle eyes ; she heard hardly any- 
thing of the lively talk that circled round her little 
tea-table. 

Now and then, when Evelyn and his friend came to 
fetch them for a stroll through the colleges or down by 
the river, she would find herself walking with Douglas 
Cornish. One afternoon they had punted to Iffley 
Lock, and were sitting on the bank together for a rest, 
while Evelyn and his aunt had strolled on farther. 

Cornish had addressed some question to her ; per- 
haps he had spoken in a lower tone than usual, but 
for the first time she had failed to hear him, and there 
was a distressed flush on her face as she turned to him. 

“I beg your pardon. You must find me a very 
stupid companion, but you know, Evelyn will have 
told you, that I do not hear so well. ’ ’ 

“Yes, Evelyn told me. Why don’t you go to Dun- 
lop ? They say he works miracles ; he is the man of 
the day. If I were in your place, Miss Wentworth, I 


AN OLD MAID’S STORY 


41 


should try him.” Cornish spoke a little too loudly in 
his earnestness, and she winced slightly. , 

“I am afraid it will be useless,” she returned in 
her subdued voice. Alas, poor Patience, it was grow- 
ing more toneless year by year as the sweet timbre 
died out of it ; “ but I will go — ^yes, why not ? Cer- 
tainly I will go.” 

‘ ‘ It will be wise of you, and I know your brother 
wishes it, ’ ’ was all Douglas Cornish said in answer ; 
but as she looked at him in her pathetic anxious way, 
not wishing to lose a word, there was a sudden soften- 
ing in his keen eyes, a gleam of some strong sympathy 
that went straight to her heart. 

“ He is very kind and he is sorry for me,” she said 
to herself, as he left her side and strolled off to meet 
the others, who were now returning. “ I never knew 
anyone so kind before,” and it seemed to her that 
day as though some stray sunbeam had fallen across 
her path. 

Do people ever realise the power of sympathy. It is 
a lever that might move mountains ; the comfort of that 
kind look and word made Patience happier for weeks. 

She was only one or two and thirty then, and 
Douglas Cornish was not much over four-and-twenty ; 
but he was singularly mature for his age, and Patience 
always treated him as though he were her contem- 
porary. Evelyn was still her boy, to be mothered and 
petted and advised, but she stood in awe of his friend. 
Evelyn would laugh at her sometimes. “Why, 
Patsie,” he would say — his pet name for her — “you 
talk of Cornish as though he were a Don at least, and 
a dozen years my senior, but he is only three years 
older.” 


42 


THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 


“Ah, I always forget that,” she would say, with 
her shy flush. “He is so grave and clever, Evvy, 
that one cannot remember that he is only a young 
man,” and then Evelyn would throw back his head 
and laugh again in his boyish fashion at old Patsie’s 
droll speech. 

If Patience had had more knowledge of the world, 
she might have become sooner aware of her own 
danger ; but she had no mother to warn her, and in 
that strangely silent world of hers she seemed to move 
apart ; the ordinary pleasures of young womanhood 
had never been hers : ball-rooms were unknown to 
her, and concerts and musical parties could give her 
little satisfaction. 

“ It is no use, auntie,” she would say to Mrs. Went- 
worth, during the years that lively widow presided 
over her niece’s household. “I’m not fit for society, 
and I had far better stay at home,” and after one or 
two attempts to make Patience change her mind, Mrs. 
Wentworth wisely let her go her own way. 

“ It is a grievous pity,” she would say sometimes to 
Evelyn. ‘ ‘ Patience is really very good-looking, and 
when she is dressed properly she is quite pretty ; if 
that horrid deafness did not make her so shy and 
nervous, I am sure people would admire her. These 
up-to-date girls are terribly fatiguing, and many a 
sensible man would prefer a gentle, old-fashioned girl 
like Patience.” 

“Aunt Hilda, you are a born match-maker,” Evelyn 
would return, with his fresh boyish laugh, “but you 
may as well leave Patsie out of your reckoning ; she 
never means to marry, I can tell you that ; besides, I 
could not spare her. ’ ’ 


AN OLD MAID’S STORY 


43 


But Mrs. Wentworth only shook her head incredu- 
lously. If Patience had ever realised that her brother’s 
friend was becoming too powerful a factor in her life’s 
happiness, she would have been the first to cry shame 
on herself ; it would have seemed a shameful and in- 
conceivable thing to her that she should yield her 
heart to a man who had never shown her any prefer- 
ence, and yet such love in its crystalline purity would 
have been a crown to any man. It was friendship, she 
would say, tying the flimsy bandage over her innocent 
eyes ; but later on she knew, and the knowledge was 
to her the bitterest humiliation. 

It was not for two or three years after that Oxford 
visit that the full awakening came. 

A friend of Mrs. Wentworth had lent her his house 
at St. Servan, that charming httle suburb of St. Malo, 
for two months ; and she had induced Patience and her 
brother to spend part of the long vacation there with her. 

Douglas Cornish, who had joined a reading party at 
Ambleside, came to them later on. 

One morning they were all sitting among the rocks, 
watching the bathers in their gay dresses splashing and 
frolicking in the water ; the young men had their 
London papers, Mrs. Wentworth was busy with a 
magazine ; but Patience’s work lay idle in her lap, and 
she watched the scene with engrossing interest. 

A fresh wind was rippling the bay and creasing it 
into tiny waves ; the deep blue of the water contrasted 
with the heaps of amber seaweed that lay piled in 
heaps ; the rocks cast strange violet shadows over the 
sand ; Dinard lay across the bay in the sunshine, and 
the distant pealing of bells came from some grey old 
churches in the distance. 


44 


THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 


Some children were paddling in the sea ; their bare 
brown legs seemed to twinkle as they danced in and 
out of the water ; half a dozen boys in blue blouses, 
carrying streamers of wet brown seaweed over their 
shoulders, were marching and stumping along in mili- 
tary fashion. 

Their captain marched proudly beside them. ‘ ‘ Pierre, 
thou art stooping like an old wood-cutter. Hold thy- 
self erect and regard me, thy commander. ’ ’ He flapped 
his brown pennon bravely as he spoke, and the little 
regiment stumped on, past the gay striped circles of 
bathers, popping up and down like gigantic corks, and 
holding each other’s hands tightly. When the blue- 
coated battalion had passed, the children began frisk- 
ing again ; then Mrs. Wentworth remembered that 
she had notes to write before the d^je'tiner^ and that 
she must go back to the chMet. 

Patience gave a little nod and coloured slightly 
when her aunt, who was fond of gesticulation, traced 
imaginary characters in the air ; the good lady was 
rather given to this dumb show ; she said it saved her 
trouble, but how Patience hated it ; she hoped secretly 
that Mr. Cornish had not noticed the little by-play, 
for she was always more sensitive when he was near, 
and there was a shadow on her brow as she gave her 
attention again to the bathers — a little of the sunshine 
had faded out of the landscape. 

Evelyn was the next to put down his paper. A tall 
girl in a blue serge boating-dress and a sailor-hat was 
coming down the steep cliff path, followed by an 
elderly man with a grey moustache. 

Evelyn tossed away his Standard, and there was a 
quick glance of recognition in his eyes ; then he 


AN OLD MAID’S STORY 


45 

leisurely dusted the sand from his coat and sauntered 
slowly across the beach. 

Douglas Cornish, who noticed everything, raised his 
eyes with an amused smile to Patience. 

‘ ‘ Colonel Brett and his daughter are going for a 
sail,” he said. ” I expect they will ask Wentworth to 
go with them, ’ ’ and Patience, who had lost no syllable 
of the young man’s clear and carefully modulated 
speech, bent her head in assent. 

‘ ‘ She is very beautiful, ’ ’ she said, half to herself, 

‘ ‘ and one cannot wonder at it ; but he is young — oh, 
far too young.” 

“Age does not count in such matters,” and Cornish 
laughed ; “and it is not lad’s love at three or four and 
twenty. I believe Miss Brett is not really older, but 
she is just a trifle mature for Wentworth ; she dom- 
inates him a bit, don’ t you know ?’ ’ 

“Yes, I see what you mean,” but not even with this 
dearest friend would Patience discuss her brother’s love 
affair ; in her simple old-world creed such topics were 
not to be talked over with any man. She coloured, 
fidgeted a little, and then said, almost abruptly ; 

“ Mr. Cornish, there is something I want to tell you 
about myself — Evelyn does not know yet. Do you 
remember some summers ago begging me to go to 
Dunlop? Of course I took your advice, and Aunt 
Hilda went with me, but he could work no miracle in 
my case, and — and — I have been to others. I have 
even consulted that famous German aurist.” 

“Well,” he said, looking at her through his 
puckered eyelids, “and could none of them do you 
good ?” 

“No,” she said, folding her hands quietly on her 


46 THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 

lap. She had beautiful hands, and they were soft and 
dimpled as a child’s. “ There is nothing to be done ; 
it is partly nerves, but there is other mischief ; if I live 
long, I must be wholly deaf.” She had wrought her- 
self up to say this to him, and yet she could give her- 
self no reason for the confidence ; for once she had 
acted on impulse, but Douglas Cornish did not disap- 
point her ; he took it all as she meant it. 

‘ ‘ This is grievous news, ’ ’ he said, gently. ‘ ‘ Evelyn 
will feel it much ; he is so fond of you. Miss Went- 
worth. Few brothers are more devoted to a sister, but 
then you have been a mother to him. Should you like 
me to tell him ? I think he ought to know, and then 
he will leave off bothering you about remedies. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ It will be very kind of you, ’ ’ she said, gratefully, 
and then there came that blue flash into his eyes that 
she had once seen before. 

‘ ‘ Who could help being kind to you. Miss Pa- 
tience ?’ ’ he burst out. ‘ ‘ Upon my word, you are the 
best and the bravest woman I know, and Evelyn thinks 
the same. ’ ’ It was not a lover-like speech ; the vainest 
and most conscious of women would not have inter- 
preted it in that sense ; nevertheless Patience Went- 
worth’s pulses tingled and throbbed with pure delight. 

‘ ‘ Who could help being kind to you ?’ ’ she repeated 
to herself, as she sat at her open window that evening. 
‘‘You are the best and the bravest woman I know.” 
Those words would ever be engraven on her heart, but 
that night, alas, the flimsy bandage was removed for 
ever from her eyes. This was Patience Wentworth’s 
solitary romance, her one secret, but no one, not even 
her brother, ever guessed it and Douglas Cornish least 
of all. Cornish was very mush attached to his friend’s 


AN OLD MAID’S STORY 


47 

sister; he had never had a sister of his own, and 
Patience Wentworth seemed to fill the place of one. 
When they were alone, he would tell her things about 
himself, not everything, perhaps, for his nature was 
singularly reticent, but little everyday matters about his 
rooms, or his scout, or his pupils, and dearly she prized 
these confidences. 

But he never marvelled why she always seemed to 
hear him better than other people, though Evelyn once 
called his attention to it. 

^*How do you manage it, Cornish? I wish you 
would teach me the trick. You never speak louder 
than the rest of us, and yet Patience seems to hear 
you.” Evelyn spoke in perfect good faith ; his sister’s 
increasing deafness was a great trouble to him, and he 
wondered how she could take it so quietly. 

Patience kept her own counsel ; she was too unselfish 
to harrow up people’s feelings. It was her cross, her 
burden, to be carried and borne all the days of her 
life. If she had chosen, she could have been eloquent 
enough ; she could have described to them a strange 
world that seemed to be peopled with ghosts. Faces 
seemed to rise out of the silence, hands waved to her, 
and a soundless wind seemed to blow from the four 
corners of the earth ; the daughters of music were 
brought low, and on summer mornings the thrush sang 
delicious roulades of full-throated music in vain under 
her window. 

“ I am so looking forward to the music in heaven,” 
she said one Sunday evening, but when she saw the 
tears rise to Evelyn’s eyes as he suddenly and acutely 
realised her deafness, she repented of her speech. 

Patience’s pitiful little confidence had touched 


48 THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 

Douglas Cornish, and he thought much of her that 
night. “There is something heroic about women, he 
said to himself ; ‘ ‘ they will bear patiently and uncom- 
plainingly a burden that would stagger a strong man. 
I suppose they are more unselfish. Miss Wentworth 
is — she simply has no self. ’ ’ 

He had intended speaking to his friend that night, 
but Evelyn came back from his sail in Colonel Brett’s 
yacht looking thoroughly depressed and out of sorts. 

They found out later on that he had heard that day 
that the Colonel was returning to India very shortly 
with his wife and daughter ; perhaps the Colonel and 
his wife had grown a little afraid of their daughter’s 
intimacy with young Wentworth, but from that day 
Evelyn found himself received rather coolly ; even 
Marion Brett was a little distant and stand-offish in 
her manner. 

Evelyn used to bore his friend with a recital of his 
sufferings ; he would have been thankful for his sister’s 
sympathy, but how was one to shout a love story ? 
‘ ‘ What do they mean by it, Cornish ?’ ’ he would ask, 
fiercely. ‘ ‘ The Colonel was civil enough at first, and 
so was Lady Doreen, and now they are as stiff as 
though I had run suddenly counter to all their preju- 
dices. Colonel Brett knows all about me ; he knows 
that my father, God bless him, was a gentleman, and 
that I have money of my own. Colonel Brett is not a 
nabob ; confound it all, what does it mean, blowing first 
hot and then cold in this fashion ?’ ’ and then Evelyn 
would pace the room angrily. 

‘ ‘ I suppose they want Miss Brett to marry Lord 
Camperdown,” returned his friend, slowly; “anyone 
can see that he is hard hit. My dear fellow, you have 


AN OLD MAID’S STORY 


49 


your advantages, no doubt, but the question lies in a 
nutshell — can you compete with a viscount and ten 
thousand a year ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Confound you, Cornish, ’ ’ returned Evelyn, furiously; 
* ‘ do you suppose a girl like Miss Brett will have any- 
thing to say to that limp, red-haired little fellow, if he 
had a million a year ? do you suppose a woman of her 
calibre is to be bought at any price ?’ ’ Then Cornish 
held his peace ; nevertheless, when the Bretts started 
for Calcutta, a cabin in the same steamer was taken for 
Lord Camperdown. 

Evelyn Wentworth bore his disappointment as well 
as he could ; perhaps at that time things had not 
gone very deep with him, and in youth time and 
absence work wonders, so he gained his Fellowship 
and took orders, and was beginning to make his mark 
on his generation. 

It was nearly six years before Marion Brett crossed 
his path again. She had come back to England, leav- 
ing both her parents lying side by side in their Indian 
graves. She still bore her maiden name, although re- 
port said that no other girl had ever had so many offers. 
As for Viscount Camperdown, even before the end of 
the voyage he had known his suit was useless. 

“ I have simply no vocation for matrimony,” she had 
said once, in her proud, careless way to one of her re- 
jected lovers. He was young and very much in love, 
and perhaps his temper was not quite under control. 

“You will have nothing to say to any of us. Miss 
Brett,” he returned, bitterly. “ You are a cut above 
us, you see ; but perhaps if some immaculate hero were 

to cross your way ” and here he paused meaningly, 

but she only shook her head. 

4 


50 


THE IDYLLS bF A VICARAGE 


‘ ‘ I am afraid he would bore me, unless he talked 
about something sensible. It is no use, Captain Lind- 
say,” treating him to one of her brilliant smiles. “We 
all have our vocation, and I am called upon to work — 
ah, the need of workers, ’ ’ and then her eyes grew soft 
and dreamy, for the cry of the children was in her ears, 
and the sin and the sorrow of suffering humanity lay 
heavy on her- heart. 

She had done noble work in India, and had come to 
England full of schemes for the future, yet when she 
met Evelyn Wentworth again, she recognised her 
fate, and for a time at least her woman’s sceptre fell 
from her hand. 

The Fellow of Magdalen was certainly no miracu- 
lous hero. He was simply a noble- hearted, genuine 
man, with scholarly tastes and strong sympathies ; 
nevertheless, he won Marion Brett’s affections, and 
before long they were engaged. 

Then followed a few glorious, troubled months. 
Evelyn, who knew that his fiancte must have scope 
for her untiring energies, was debating with himself 
whether he should accept an important living that had 
been offered him, a large and somewhat neglected 
parish, near Liverpool. He had actually so far sac- 
rificed his own feelings and tastes as to write an ac- 
ceptance, in spite of his friend Cornish’s earnest 
remonstrances. 

“The work will not suit you, Wentworth,” he had 
said at once in his uncompromising way ; ‘ ‘ the slums 
are not your vocation. If you accept St. Chad’s, you 
will make a grievous mistake but though in his secret 
heart Evelyn agreed with him, Marion Brett’s influence 
was too strong ; the letter was written, but before it was 


AN OLD MAID’S STORY 


51 


posted the blow had fallen ; Marion had written to beg 
him to set her free. 

The letter she wrote was a strange one, an odd, 
pathetic mingling of womanly tenderness with unbal- 
anced and crude reasoning, and a morbid self-surrender 
to a one-sided and perverted sense of duty. 

‘ ‘ I could never be happy if I turned traitor to my 
work ; dear Evelyn, be good to me and release me ; 
all these months I have never been at peace, but you 
were so strong, and you compelled me against my will. 
Ah, you have taught me that love means suffering, but 
if I married you we should both be so miserable ; when 
the conscience is not at rest the heart knows no peace,” 
and so on, until the iron entered Evelyn Wentworth’s 
soul, and he consented to give her up. 

“You have never loved me, Marion, or you would 
not be leaving me like this, ’ ’ he said to her, and his face 
was white with passion and pain, but there was almost 
a look of anguish in her beautiful eyes as she answered 
him : 

“You are wrong, Evelyn. Oh, if I could only make 
you understand, but you have never understood me, 
never ; and I have been much to blame, ’ ’ and then she 
stretched out her hand to him as though in mute ap- 
peal for his forgiveness, and its marble coldness seemed 
to chill him to the heart. 

Evelyn Wentworth suffered terribly ; the whole plan 
and purpose of his life seemed spoiled ; but after a 
time, when the pain of his loss grew more bearable, he 
settled down to his work doggedly, and a few years 
later he accepted the living of Sandilands ; and Patience 
broke up her home without a word, and took up her 
life at the Vicarage. With all her sweet charity, there 


52 THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 

was one woman in the world for whom she had simply 
no toleration, and at whose name her gentle face always 
grew stern and hard. 

“Don’t speak to me of Marion Brett,” she would say 
to Mr. Cornish, and her voice would tremble with in- 
dignation. ‘ ‘ I pray God that I do not hate her, for it 
is wrong to hate any one, but she broke Evelyn’s 
heart, and — ^and — I cannot forgive her,” and then she 
would draw herself up and go out of the room. 

“ It is like a red rag to her,” Cornish wpuld mutter, 

‘ ‘ and I will not deny it was a sad business, though, as 
far as Wentworth is concerned, I am not sure it was 
not a lucky escape. Miss Brett would never have made 
a comfortable wife to any man, and he has done some 
good work — some excellent work in its way. ’ ’ 


Ill 


MISS PATIENCE GOES HOME 

Mr. Wentworth had been Vicar of Sandilands 
five years, when the second great trouble of his life 
came to him. By that time the little Sister had be- 
come very intimate at the Vicarage, and had grown to 
love Miss Patience dearly ; little by little the few pitiful 
details of a disappointed life had been filtered with dif- 
ficulty through the dim, ineffective ears to the bright 
intelligence and warm, womanly heart ; and it was 
wonderful how soon she grasped the whole truth. 

Some people will think it strange that I have spoken 
of myself in the third person, but it has seemed to me 
far better, when one is relating the stories of one’s 
friends, to stand outside oneself, as it were, and to 
mingle with the crowd as bystanders and loiterers are 
wont to do. 

For even to the least egotistical of mortals it is diffi- 
cult to resist the temptation to group all incidents and 
situations round the central Ego ; and to stamp one's 
friends with the everlasting impress of one’s own per- 
sonality ; as though they were puppets in some show, 
that only move to particular wires, and dance as their 
owner bids them ; this danger, then, let me once and 
for ever eschew by calling myself by the name given 
me by the simple villagers, “the little Sister,” or “our 

53 


54 


THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 


little Lady up at Fir Cottage or to a few, just Miss 
Merrick or Clare. 

Those hours spent at the Vicarage were dearly prized 
by the little Sister ; and she recalls especially one win- 
ter’s afternoon when she and Miss Patience sat together, 
not talking much, but enjoying that pleasant sense of 
fellowship that even the silent presence of a congenial 
companion sometimes affords ; and how she felt sud- 
denly a soft, warm hand on hers, and the low, monoto- 
nous voice that she had grown to love broke the stillness. 

‘ ‘ Clare, my dear, I have been thinking so much of 
you and poor Bessie Martin, and — and of others lately ; 
there are so many life skeins in a tangle, are there not ? 
and we are such sad bunglers when we begin to unravel 
them ; but there is a word of comfort for each one of 
us : ‘ What I do, thou knowest not now, but thou 
shalt know hereafter. ’ ’ ’ There was a slight tremulous 
motion of Miss Patience’s chin as she said this. Then 
she repeated more steadily, “‘but thou shalt know 
hereafter. ’ Ah, we may well be patient, Clare, when 
we think of all our good things heaped up and ready 
for us there.” 

When Miss Patience’s unsuspected malady suddenly 
developed, and she grew daily more ill and suffering, 
the litde Sister left her rooms at Fir Cottage, and took 
up her quarters at the Vicarage, and it was her privi- 
lege to nurse her to the end. 

It was long, very long, before the Vicar realised the 
hopelessness of the case ; perhaps he closed his eyes 
wilfully, and refused to recognise the truth, and Dr. 
Barrett never attempted to undeceive him. ‘ ‘ There is 
no need to cross the bridge until we come to it, ’ ’ he 
would say, in his rough, kindly way. “The Vicar 


MISS PATIENCE GOES HOME 


55 


will find it out for himself soon enough. Miss Went- 
worth will not die just yet,” and Mr. Cornish fully en- 
dorsed this opinion. Mr. Cornish was a constant vis- 
itor ; sometimes the servants, especially Mrs. Catlin, 
the cook, would grumble a little at the extra trouble 
that his visits involved ; but Barry, who was devoted 
to his master, always cut these complaints short. 

‘ ‘ I don’ t see that the Professor makes so much dif- 
ference,” he would say, obstinately. “What is good 
enough for the master is surely good enough for any 
gentleman, and it is only laying another place and 
opening a fresh bottle of claret every day. You ought 
to be ashamed of yourself, Mrs. Catlin, and you too, 
Phoebe, making troubles out of nothing, when you 
know how the master loves to have Mr. Cornish 
smoking his old meerschaum in the chimney corner ; 
but there, this comes of living with a pack of women,” 
and Barry would march off to his pantry in a dudgeon, 
while Mrs. Catlin, who was a good-hearted creature, 
would add some favourite dainty to the menu in token 
of her penitence. 

Perhaps Mr. Cornish knew that his presence was a 
comfort to the Vicar, or he would not have left his be- 
loved rooms at Oriel, and come down so constantly to 
Sandilands ; during the long vacation he almost lived 
at the Vicarage. 

Miss Patience’s dim eyes used to brighten when she 
heard he had come. “ He is so good,” she whispered 
to herself : “he does it for Evelyn’s sake. May God 
reward him for his faithful friendship.” 

Now and then there would be a wistful look in her 
eyes, and she would say a word or two that showed 
where her thoughts had strayed. 


56 THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 

“What time is it, Clare? Half-past eight? Ah, 
they have finished dinner, and have gone back to the 
study. They will be sitting in the big bay watching 
for the moon to rise behind the firs ; that is what 
Evelyn loves.’’ 

Or again, ‘ ‘ I hope Mrs. Catlin remembers to have 
fish every day. Barry has plenty of time to fetch it 
from the station ; or Crampton’s cart would bring it. 
She is a good manager, but the best of servants need 
the mistress’s supervision ; would you give her a hint, 
dear? But there,’’ with a patient sigh, “ I must learn 
to leave things. I must not be too Martha-like now. ’ ’ 

One day Mr. Cornish sent up a message to know if 
Miss Wentworth were well enough to see him ; the 
Vicar had dropped a hint during luncheon. He was a 
little uneasy about his sister, and he wished Cornish to 
see her, and give him his opinion ; perhaps it was only 
because the heat had tried her, but he thought that she 
looked more ill than usual. 

Miss Patience was lying on her couch by the open 
window in her white dressing-gown and close cap. It 
was a bad day with her, and her deafness seemed worse 
than ever. It was some time before she could be made 
to understand the message, and she got sadly flurried 
and nervous before she grasped it, and then quite a 
girlish flush came to her face. 

“Ah, yes, I can see him,’’ she said, eagerly. “I 
am well enough for that Will you go and tell him so, 
Clare? and — ^and — I think I should like to see him 
alone.’’ 

It was evident that Mr. Cornish was not prepared for 
the sad change, for he started, and his eyebrows con- 
tracted with sudden pain, as Miss Patience held out her 


MISS PATIENCE GOES HOME 


57 


hand to him with a smile ; the wan little face looked 
pinched and shrunken, there were violet shadows under 
the soft eyes, and the lips were dark and dry, as though 
with inward fever. 

“ It is kind of you to come,” she said, a little breath- 
lessly ; “but you are always kind, and I wanted so 
much to see you and to thank you for all your goodness 
to Evelyn.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, I have done nothing, nothing at all, ’ * and then, 
as he sat down by her, the faint rose-leaf flush came 
again to her cheek, hiding for a few moments the waste 
and ravage of disease ; any one who had guessed her 
secret would have interpreted rightly that yearning ten- 
derness in her eyes, but Douglas Cornish held no such 
clue. 

But he felt vaguely troubled and ill at ease — ^perhaps 
at that moment he realised how much he should miss 
her ; for there is something very precious and satisfying 
in an old friendship, and sympathy from one who cares 
for us is just the priceless spikenard that was once 
poured on a Kingly Head, when a feeble woman’s 
hand broke that alabaster box for that sacred anoint- 
ing ; and in her simple, kindly way Miss Patience had 
been very good to him — that was how he put it. He 
said very few words to her, but she evidently heard 
them ; he only made some observation on the lovely 
clusters of roses that were peeping in at the open win- 
dow, but she understood him at once. 

“Yes, are they not lovely?” she said, with a sweet 
smile. ‘ ‘ I tell Clare Merrick that I will not have them 
touched ; they are a message from ‘ the garden that I 
love,’ and in the night, when I cannot see them, their 
fragrance is with me. ’ ’ 


58 THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 

“ You do not sleep well, then ?” he asked, narrowing 
his eyes as he spoke, but she shook her head sadly at 
the question. 

“I do nothing well now,” she said, in her weak 
voice, ‘ ‘ but I shall be better by and by. Mr. Cornish, 
there is a great favour that I want to ask you,” and 
then she stopped and looked at him wistfully. 

‘‘Dear Miss Wentworth,” he said, gently, “we are 
such old friends, you and I, that surely you need not 
hesitate a moment.” 

“Oh, but you do not know what it is that I am 
going to ask, but you are so kind, and I know you will 
not refuse. Something tells me that it will not be long 
now — ^please do not look sorry because I say that, for 
when one suffers, the only longing is for rest ; but it 
troubles me that Evelyn does not see, that he will not 
open his eyes to understand.” 

‘ ‘ Do you wish me to tell him ?’ ’ he asked, abruptly, 
but again she shook her head. 

“No, let him be ; he will find it out some day, and 
then — ah, I know — he will be so terribly unhappy. 
All his life I have mothered him, and there is no one — 
no one — to take [my place. Dear friend,” and here 
the thin hand touched his coat-sleeve pleadingly, ‘ ‘ will 
you stay with him until it is over ? You can help him 
as no one else can, and I shall be happier to know you 
are beside him ; it will be helping me too. ’ * 

“You need not fear, I will not leave him,” this was 
all his answer, but the keen eyes softened in the way 
Miss Patience loved. 

“Thank you,” she said, with a little sob, and that 
was all that passed between them ; but she grew rather 
faint and weary after that, and Mr. Cornish in alarm 


MISS PATIENCE GOES HOME 


59 

summoned the little Sister, and then went out into the 
fir wood, to avoid answering the Vicar’s questions. 

Strange to say, the very next day Miss Patience had 
another visitor. It was a close, sultry afternoon, and 
even the roses drooped their sweet heads in the fierce 
July sunshine, and there was hardly a leaf moving ; the 
birds were all hushed to silence, and only the white 
butterflies skimmed blithely through the hot air. Miss 
Patience, who suffered terribly from the heat, was 
propped up high on her pillows that she might rest her 
weary eyes with the dark shadows of the fir woods. 
“ If I could only be carried into the woods,” she had 
said more than once, ‘ ‘ and smell the spicy fragrance of 
the firs, I think I should feel better,” but of course she 
knew that it was impossible ; the longest journey that 
she could ever take in this world was just those few 
steps from the bed to the couch. 

She had only just uttered this little speech when a 
note was brought to her — a few pencilled words traced 
hurriedly on a slip of paper ; but as she read them the 
small face grew set and stern, and she trembled all 
over. ‘ ‘ How dare she enter this house !’ ’ she said 
angrily; and then she checked herself. “No, I was 
wrong ; if we do not forgive how are we to expect to 
be forgiven?” and then she read the words again. 

‘ ‘ Dear Patience, for the sake of our old friendship, do 
not refuse to see me. I have come all this way to bid 
you God- speed. — Your loving Marion.” That was 
all. 

The silence in the sick-room grew more oppressive 
every minute ; only the humming of a large brown bee 
broke the silence, but Miss Patience still lay with one 
hand covering her eyes, and her lips moving as though 


6o THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 


she were in some dire strait of perplexity and doubt ; 
then she said in an agitated voice, “ It is a sad trouble 
to me, but I do not see how I am to refuse. Clare, 
will you go down to Miss Brett and tell her that I will 
see her for a few minutes, but she must not stay long ; 
but you will know what to say to her ; you are always 
so kind and wise,” and then the littie Sister went down 
to interview the stranger. 

A tall, stately-looking woman in a long grey cloak 
was standing by the window. At the sound of the 
opening door she turned her head, and then the little 
Sister felt a sudden shock of surprise. In all her life 
she had never seen such a beautiful face. For a long 
time after the interview was over she puzzled herself to 
think where she had seen it before, and then she re- 
membered the Parian marble bust of Clytie in the 
Vicar’s study, and it seemed to her then that Marion 
Brett might have been the model. It was not a young 
face by any means — Miss Brett must have been forty 
at least — ^but the profile was perfect ; the grave, dark 
eyes, a little sunken, were full of fire and sweetness, 
and under the close bonnet the glorious auburn hair 
rippled in perpetual sunshine. 

“You are the nurse,” she said quickly — she had a 
deep, musical voice. “You have come to tell me, I 
hope, that Miss Wentworth will see me.” 

“Yes, she will see you,” returned the little Sister in 
a hesitating voice ; “ but will you permit me to give you 
a hint first ? I am only the friend who is nursing her ; 
but I love her dearly, and I understand her so well. 
She is very ill ; when you see her, you will find that 
out for yourself ; her nights are terrible, and she suffers 
much at times, so she can bear very little. Mr. Cornish 


MISS PATIENCE GOES HOME 6i 

saw her yesterday for the first time, but it was too 
much for her, and she was very faint. ’ ’ 

“I will be careful,” in a low voice. “I know a 
good deal about illness. I have nursed in a hospital, 
and there are always sick people round us. Miss Pa- 
tience was never strong, and that fever undermined her 
constitution ; and yes, I know,” and her eyes grew 
pitiful as the little Sister looked at her, ‘ ‘ her mother 
died of it, and she was so young — so young ; and now 
will you let me go to her, for my time is not my own ?’ ’ 
And then without a word the little Sister led her to the 
door. 

Miss Patience was still lying high on her pillows, but 
there was a strained, anxious look in her eyes, and two 
feverish spots had come to her wan cheeks. 

‘ ‘ Marion, why have you come ?’ ’ she said reproach- 
fully, as Miss Brett knelt down by her couch ; and as 
she took the weak little figure in her arms, the grey 
cloak seemed to envelop her like spreading wings, and 
the beautiful face had the tender smile of a benignant 
angel. “It is not right that you should enter this 
house ; surely you must feel that. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ There is no house in all the world that I should 
fear to enter, if one whom I loved were on a sick bed,” 
and Marion Brett’s voice was clear and unfaltering. 
“ Patience, dear Patience, do you not know me by this 
time ? If my friend needed me, I would go into Hades 
itself. Is there anything that I have ever found too 
hard to do, if it were in my power to bring comfort ?’ ’ 
Then Miss Patience shook her head sadly. 

‘ ‘ There is no comfort you can bring to this house. 
Marion, you mean it kindly, you have a warm heart, 
and you do not forget, and — and you are sorry for 


62 


THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 


me ; but the hand that has inflicted the wound can- 
not heal it, and the day you destroyed my brother’s 
happiness I prayed that I might never see your face 
again. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Ah, if you speak to me like that I must indeed go ; 
but you do not mean it : we cannot part like this. Is 
it not pain enough for me to see you lying there a mere 
wreck of your old sweet self, that you must add to my 
sorrow by these bitter words? Patience, you are a 
good woman ; why can you not understand that one 
must act up to one’s sense of right? If I have caused 
suffering, have I not suffered myself? Has my life 
been so easy and happy all these years? Ah, God 
knows, for only He who made women’s hearts knows 
how much they can bear. ’ ’ 

The deep, passionate voice so close to her made 
itself partially heard ; then Marion Brett suddenly broke 
down, and her tears wetted the weak hands that lay so 
limply folded together. 

“Dear Patience,” she sobbed, “say something 
kind to me — do not leave this world bearing a grudge 
against me. Oh, if we could only change places — if 
I could lie there in your stead — how gladly I would 
yield my life to give you back to him. ’ ’ Then a wan 
smile came to the sick woman’s face. 

“You speak as though you meant it, and I thank 
you ; but it would be cruel kindness. I have never 
wished for a long life ; when one’s path is silent and 
solitary — but no, I will not complain. I have had my 
blessings too. Marion, there shall be peace between 
us. Forgive me if I spoke too bitterly ; but when one 
has to see day by day the waste and barrenness of a 
life that might have been so beautiful, it seems to 


MISS PATIENCE GOES HOME 63 

harden one’s heart ; but I know, of course I know, 
that you were not wantonly cruel. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Thank Heaven that at least you can do me that 
justice ; but, Patience, for the sake of the dear old 
past, answer me one question — how is he ?’ ’ 

“ He is well, but he is very lonely ; when I am gone 
there will be no one to comfort him. Evelyn takes 
nothing lighdy ; his nature is intense, and he never 
forgets.” 

Marion Brett’s head sank for a moment on her hands ; 
when she raised it, there was a strange, troubled look 
in her eyes. 

“Yes, he was always intense, and I see he has not 
changed ; but if one’s prayers were only answered — 
but one must walk by faith, and life will not last for 
ever. Dear Patience, I must go now. I live in a busy 
world, and if it were not for my work, I could find it 
in my heart to envy you ; for you are going to a place 
where there are no mistakes, and no need for self- 
sacrifice : but I am strong, so strong, and my rest will 
not come yet. Dear — dearest Patience, good-bye, and 
God bless you ; the bitterness has died out of your 
heart, I can see that, and poor Marion is forgiven. 
May I kiss you again, dear?” and then for a few 
seconds the two women clung together, and this time 
the tears were in Miss Patience’s eyes. 

“I was too hard, too hard,” she whispered; “we 
have no right to judge each other. Now go, and God 
bless you too and then, with her head still bent, 
Marion Brett passed out of the door, just as the Vicar 
crossed the hall on his way to the study. No one had 
told him of the visitor, and at the sound of the light 
tread he looked up ; and then, as the footsteps paused, 


64 THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 

it seemed to his dazzled eyes as though he were gazing 
at some wondrous vision. There was a stained-glass 
window at the head of the staircase, which added 
greatly to its beauty, and there, with a halo of purple 
and crimson glory behind it, stood a motionless grey 
figure, with floating draperies. The thin cloak was 
flung aside, and fell in soft folds from the shoulders, 
and the close bonnet was pushed back, only showing 
the veil and the waves of auburn hair, while the per- 
fect face for which he had hungered and thirsted all 
these years was looking down at him with a solemn 
smile of recognition. 

No wonder the Vicar shaded his eyes as though he 
were suddenly dizzy, for the dream that had haunted 
his waking and sleeping hours, stood embodied under 
the oriel window, with strange colours staining its grey 
raiment — a grand woman — angel — and the glory and 
the torment of Evelyn Wentworth’s life. 

Most women would have found it a trying ordeal, to 
be confronted suddenly and unexpectedly with the 
man they had jilted ; but Marion Brett had a strange 
complex nature ; with all her faults, her grievous mis- 
takes, there was nothing small about her ; she took 
things simply, and without self-consciousness. For the 
moment she was startled ; then the remembrance of 
the sick-room she had just left seemed to blot out all 
other thoughts, and she came swiftly down the stairs 
until she was beside him. 

“Oh,” she said, a little breathlessly, “she is very 
ill, and it breaks my heart to see her so changed and 
weak ; and there is nothing to be done — nothing.” 
And now the tears were rolling down her face again, 
for the sight of physical pain always unnerved her ; 


MISS PATIENCE GOES HOME 


65 

and she who never knew an ache, would quiver with 
sympathy from head to foot if she witnessed any phase 
of acute suffering. 

There was a strange glow in the Vicar’s eyes, but all 
he said was : ‘ ‘ Will you come in here, and tell me 
what you think of her?” And then side by side they 
crossed the threshold of the study; but when he offered 
her a seat she shook her head, and for the first time a 
flush of consciousness came to her face. She was in 
the house of the man she had refused to marry, and 
they were alone ! 

“Will you tell me,” he said, quietly, and still 
watching her, “why you say there is nothing to be 
done? Barrett is clever and understands her con- 
stitution, but we can have another opinion. Dr. 
Fremantle was here a month ago, but we could have 
Peacock or Whistier.” Then she looked at him in 
surprise. 

‘ ‘ Why should you go to that expense ?’ ’ she said, 
quickly. ‘ ‘ Dr. Peacock could do nothing more than 
Dr. Barrett is doing ; the disease is too much advanced 
for any possibility of cure. They will just keep her 
under powerful narcotics.” Then, as she saw how 
pale he grew : “Surely they have told you — the doc- 
tor or Mr. Cornish, or the little nurse that I saw just 
now.” 

“You mean Miss Merrick. Ah, she has been our 
good angel ; but, Marion, for Heaven’s sake speak 
plainly to me. They have told me nothing. Patience 
is very ill, and suffers much ; that is all they say.” 

“ And they have left it for me — me of all people — to 
tell you, ’ ’ and there was a scared expression on Marion 
Brett’s face. “ Evelyn, it was cruel of them — cruel to 
5 


66 THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 


you and to me. Dear Patience will not be here long ; 
she is going home. Those who love her must not be 
too sorry, for life to her would only mean prolonged 
suffering.” 

‘ ‘ Good God !’ * was all his answer, but he sank into a 
chair and covered his face with his hands, as though 
stricken to the heart, the woman who stood beside him 
would have given a year of her life for the power to 
say one word of comfort to him that would not be 
mockery or mere conventionality from her lips. But 
Patience’s sad speech lingered in her memory and kept 
her dumb : ‘ ‘ There is no comfort that you can bring to 
this house. The hand that has inflicted the wound can- 
not heal it.” Alas, alas ! it was the truth. 

But the silence was horrible to her, and the buzzing 
of a honey-laden bee round the flower vases seemed to 
jar on her. Outside, roses and sunshine and the cool 
shadow of the woods ; and within, the veiled angel of 
death, and a sweet life wearing itself painfully away ; 
and beside her, a lonely man who wanted comfort. 
Then a dry sob seemed to rise in her throat. 

* ‘ Evelyn, try to bear it. Life will be over soon ; and 

though she is your dearest ’ ’ But to her terror he 

interrupted her almost roughly. 

“ She is not my dearest, nor ever will be ; you know 
that, Marion. But she is the truest and best of sisters, 
and it will be a sad day for me when I lose her. What, 
are you going ?” for she was straightening the folds of 
her cloak with trembling fingers, and her eyes were wide 
and troubled. ‘ ‘ Do you mean that you refuse to break 
bread in my house ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I refuse nothing. Oh, Evelyn, do not say such 
things ; but I have promised to be at the inn at 


MISS PATIENCE GOES HOME 


67 

Brentwood in twenty minutes’ time, and the fly is wait- 
ing. Indeed I must not stay another minute,” and then 
she held out her hand to him. 

I am sorry,” she faltered ; “how sorry even you do 
not know ; but I shall pray for you and dear Patience 
every hour of the day. ’ ’ But he made no answer to 
this. When a man desires to marry the woman that he 
loves, it gives him small comfort to know that she 
prays for him. If Marion had prayed less and loved 
more, he would not be left a lonely man, without 
wife and child, with only books and friendship to com- 
fort him. 

And so the strange, unsatisfactory interview ended, 
and the Vicar, standing bareheaded in the sunny road, 
watched with shaded eyes until the white horse and the 
shabby fly passed out of sight. 

Once, moved by some sudden impulse, Marion turned 
round and saw him, and waved her hand with kind, sad 
greeting, but he took no notice ; only as he crossed the 
threshold again he shivered slightly, as though some 
solemn presence made itself felt ; then he went up to his 
sister’s room, and no one but he and Patience knew what 
passed between them. 

It may be that the excitement of these two inter- 
views were too much for Miss Patience in her feeble 
condition, or perhaps it was only the rapid progress 
of her insidious disease, but certainly from that time 
she began to fail, and in a few days she was unable to 
leave her bed. 

The strong sedatives that were necessary to alle- 
viate her pain made her confused and drowsy ; no 
voice seemed to reach her, and she often wandered ; 
but now and then, especially towards evening, or when 


68 


THE IDYLLS OF A VICARAGE 


some stimulant had been given her, she would rouse for 
a little while from her stupor. 

One lovely August evening she was lying propped up 
on her pillows that she might look out at the pink glow 
of the sunset. The Vicar was sitting beside her as 
usual, holding her hand, when he suddenly heard the 
weak, toneless voice speaking to him. ‘ ‘ Evelyn, do 
you remember that anthem at W estminster Abbey ? Ma- 
rion was with us, and — and Douglas Cornish” — how the 
faint tones lingered over the last name ; ” it was glorious, 
glorious, as though a choir of angels were singing it. 
All day long, at waking intervals, I have been hearing 
it again : ‘ O trust in the Lord, wait patiently for Him, 
and He shall give thee thy heart’s desire’ — wait pa- 
tiently,” and here her voice seemed to die away. But 
more than once that night the watchers by her bed 
heard her murmuring broken fragments of the same 
words, and piecing them together with some wander- 
ing thought. 

“ Thy heart’s desire — yours and mine, Evelyn — and 
all in His own good time. ’ ’ And again : “Wait patiently 
— for Him — ah, I have failed ; but it was so hard, and 
so lonely, and the silence at first seemed so crushing ; 
and yet — ^was any cross too hard for Him to bear ?’ ’ 
And later, when they hoped she was sleeping, and Mr. 
Cornish was trying to persuade the Vicar to take a little 
rest, the weak voice broke out once again, “Wait pa- 
tiently for Him, and He shall give thee thy heart’s desire; 
dear, dear Evelyn, thy heart’s desire !” 

But it was not that night that the merciful angel took 
her home ; there was another day of restlessness and 
suffering, but towards evening those who loved her 
most gathered round her bed. 


MISS PATIENCE GOES HOME 


69 


The Vicar was supporting her, and on the other 
side Mr. Cornish was kneeling. Some tender look in 
the dying eyes had seemed to welcome him and keep 
him there. 

The feeble life was panting itself away, when there 
was a sudden gleam on the sunken face. ‘ ‘ Evelyn, He 
said it, and I heard, Ephphatha, be opened,” and then 
the sweet eyes closed ; and as Douglas Cornish instinc- 
tively laid his strong, warm hand over the little hands 
that were growing chill with death. Patience Went- 
worth crossed the threshold between the two she 
most loved, and then the door of the Infinite closed 
upon her. 

Those were the words engraved on her tomb ; a 
marble cross, with a dove perching on one of the arms, 
stands just by the gate that leads from the churchyard 
into the fir wood. 


Patience Wentworth, 

Aged 55. 

“And He said unto her, Ephphatha, that is. Be opened.’* 











Ill 

THE TWO MOTHERS 


71 








1 


THE MISTRESS OF KINGSDENE 

If utter and complete dissatisfaction with one’s en- 
vironment constitutes unhappiness, Mrs. Compton of 
Kingsdene might be considered an unhappy woman. 

All her life she had strained after certain ideals, and 
had failed to realise them, and the fruits of mediocrity 
that she had garnered in her life-harvest, and which 
would have been riches and joy to a less aspiring and 
ambitious nature, were as the apples of Sodom to her 
fastidious taste — mere dust and bitterness. 

Isabel Compton never owned, even in her secret 
heart, that her lines had fallen in pleasant places. The 
metaphorical green pastures and still waters of a peace- 
ful country life were arid desert and monotonous dul- 
ness to a woman who loved, above everything, the roar 
of traffic in Piccadilly and the jostling of a well-dressed 
crowd on its pavements. Any day she would have 
exchanged gladly the melodious warbling of thrushes 
and blackbirds in her own copses for the twittering of 
grimy town sparrows under the eaves, and even for the 
untuneful cry of the street vendor and gutter merchant ; 
for like the gentle and witty writer of Elia's Essays — 
she delighted in the din of a great city. 

Nature had intended Mrs. Compton for a life of 
action and responsibility ; the wife of a leading poli- 
tician would have suited her exactly ; she had a clear 

73 


74 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


head, and a power of grasping any subject that inter- 
ested her that was almost masculine in its breadth and 
directness ; but her talents had never been utilised. If 
her husband had died bankrupt for example — instead 
of leaving her a well-dowered widow with an only child 
— she would have set her shoulder to the wheel, and 
worked for her boy, and the name of Isabel Compton 
would have been mentioned with respect in the city. 
But Richard Compton had been a safe man all his life, 
and on his deathbed he smiled more than once at the 
thought that his wife would never miss one of her ac- 
customed comforts ; nevertheless, almost the last words 
he said to her were full of a long hidden and carefully 
repressed sadness — 

‘ ‘ Isabel, my dear, you have been a good wife to me, 
and I have loved you dearly, but I ought never to have 
married you ; you would have been happier with 
another man ’ and though she had contradicted this 
passionately and with bitter tears, in her secret soul 
she knew that Richard had spoken gospel truth. 

Strangers always wondered where Mrs. Compton had 
got her dark beauty, but there was Spanish blood in her 
veins. Her mother had belonged to an old Andalusian 
family, and her father had been a Highlander. 

When Richard Compton first met Isabel Macdonald 
at a fancy ball at his father’s house, he fell desperately 
in love with her. She wore the ftte dress of an Anda- 
lusian peasant, and the crimson roses in her laced 
bodice, and in her glossy black hair, were scarcely 
more vivid than the brilliant colour in her cheeks. 
Excitement, and perhaps the consciousness of her own 
bewitching beauty, had added to the lustre in her eyes, 
and many were the envious glances that followed 


THE MISTRESS OF KINGSDENE 


75 


Richard Compton as he carried off the acknowledged 
belle of the room for another and another dance. 
Richard Compton had plenty of English pluck, and the 
proverbial tenacity of the British bull dog ; when he 
wanted a thing very badly he generally got it, and if 
genius consists in ‘ ‘ the capacity for taking infinite pains, ’ * 
it must be acknowledged that he possessed some sort of 
genius. His courtship was as impetuous as the charge at 
Balaclava, and before she had quite made up her mind 
that she did not dislike him, Isabel Macdonald found that 
she had promised to marry him ; but perhaps those 
days of their engagement were the happiest in her life. 

Richard Compton was well born and well connected, 
although he was only a Colonial broker in Mincing 
Lane ; and he was handsome and athletic, and had good 
health and an easy temper ; most people who knew him 
well thought him intelligent and lovable, and he trans- 
mitted these virtues to his boy. He had plenty of 
business capacity, and liked “the shop,” as he called it, 
and it galled him excessively to know that his wife de- 
spised it. Isabel’s chief grievance was that Richard 
had no ambition, that he did not care to stir out of his 
groove when he grew rich, and began rolling the golden 
ball, making “his pile,” as the Yankees say. He had 
no desire to shunt business and lead the life of a man 
of fashion, on the contrary, his one yearning was for a 
country existence and a model farm. This was the 
rock on which their matrimonial ship foundered. 

They were a strangely ill-assorted couple. Richard 
Compton loved his beautiful wife, with the still deep 
affection of a strong nature ; he would have brought 
down the stars from heaven if she had desired them, 
but he could not alter his nature. When a husband 


76 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


and wife love each other tenderly, and yet do not agree 
on any single point, there must be some degree of 
friction between them. 

Richard’s father and his grandfather had been 
potentates in Mincing Lane ; the old grey-haired 
clerks had known him from his boyhood, and still 
spoke of him familiarly as our Mr. Richard. His 
father had built Kingsdene, and had spent the latter 
part of his life very happily in beautifying it, and lay- 
ing out the grounds ; but it was Richard himself who 
added the farm and the long range of cattle sheds on 
the Brentwood Road. 

Kingsdene and the Dene Farm gradually absorbed 
all his interest, and he withdrew more and more from 
business. The managing clerk, Mr. Poynter, was as 
safe as a church tower. ‘ ‘ When I am gone he will keep 
things snug for Jack, and you need not bother your 
head about them, Isabel,” he said, when the knowl- 
edge that his days were numbered had been broken 
to him : ‘ ‘ Poynter is worth his weight in gold. ’ ’ 

If Isabel Compton had had her disappointments 
and her disillusions, Richard had not been without his 
private grievances too. 

By nature he was a man of peace, and these constant 
arguments with his high-spirited wife hurt and de- 
pressed him. He thought it hard that she would not 
leave him free to live the life he most loved. 

“Women are kittle cattie even the best of them,” 
he would say to himself somewhat grumpily. ‘ ‘ What 
can Isabel want more, she has her flat at Westminster. 
I gave in to her about that, though I hate flats. I 
always feel like Mother Hubbard’s dog shut up in a 
big cupboard ; she has her Victoria and her brougham, 


THE MISTRESS OF KINGSDENE 


77 


and some good diamonds ; the shop that she loathes 
provides all these good things, yet she can hardly 
bring herself to be civil to Poynter when I ask him to 
dinner, and resents his interest in Jack ; Poynter and 
she never get on somehow, she treads on the poor old 
chap’s corns with these pretty little feet of hers ; but 
there — one cannot alter Isabel,” and Richard would 
heave a heavy sigh. 

But it may be doubted whether he ever thoroughly 
understood his wife’s complex nature. Isabel liked 
her luxurious flat, and her carriages and diamonds, 
but they could not satisfy her, or appease her hunger 
and thirst for some dominating interest and work. 

If she could have been proud of her husband and 
sympathised in his pursuits and tastes, she would have 
asked nothing more of life ; she would have starved 
beside him uncomplaining in a garret ; she would have 
borne cold, and poverty, and drudgery with a smile on 
her face ; but Mincing Lane and diamonds — it was 
just giving her stones instead of bread, and Kingsdene, 
with its glorious views and well-proportioned rooms 
and the Dene Farm, with its famous black cattle and 
cream-coloured Alderneys, were nothing to her. 

And by and by another trouble came to her. 

When Isabel Compton first became a mother, and 
when, in the quaint old Biblical language, ‘ ‘ she knew 
that she had gotten a man from the Lord,” her joy 
had been so excessive as almost to endanger her life. 

‘ ‘ Mrs. Compton, if you do not keep quiet and calm, 
your baby must be taken into the next room,” the 
Doctor had said to her with assumed sternness, for the 
uneven beats of the weak pulse alarmed him for the 
safety of the emotional young creature ; but happily 


78 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


that threat sobered her effectually. Maternity is a 
passion with some natures, it was so in Isabel Comp- 
ton’s case, even her love for her husband paled a litde 
beside her adoration of her boy. 

“He is mine — my very own,” she would whisper 
to herself in the night ; ‘ ‘ my baby-boy, whom I shall 
mould, and form, and teach from the first ; he shall 
have no teacher but his mother until he goes to school. 
I will get up the rudiments of Latin from the village 
schoolmaster ; Richard shall not know, he would only 
laugh at me, but I mean to have my way in this, ’ ’ and 
as she rocked her infant in her feeble arms, Isabel had 
hours of exquisite happiness. The first jarring note 
was struck when Richard quietly announced his in- 
tention of calling the child by his father’s name. 

“There must be another John Compton, Belle,” he 
said ; ‘ ‘ but I should like him to have your name too 
— ^John Murdoch Compton, that is euphonious enough 
to suit your ladyship, ” “ your ladyship’ ’ being one of 
his pet names for her ; but Isabel only looked at him 
with a dissatisfied pucker on her brow. 

“I hope you are only joking, Richard dear,” she 
said, plaintively. “You know how I hate the name of 
John, it is so plebeian.” She spoke pettishly, but as 
usual she rubbed him up the wrong way ; even peace- 
able well-meaning men have obstinate fits sometimes. 
“It is my favourite name,” returned Richard, sul- 
lenly; “and there has always been a John Compton 
in every generation. When poor Jack died” (Jack 
was his eldest brother), “ I vowed to myself, that if I 
ever had a boy, I would call him after the dear fellow.” 
“Yes, and he will be Jack, too,” returned Isabel with 
some bitterness, for she saw that Richard intended to 


THE MISTRESS OF KINGSDENE 79 

have his way. Jack, oh, it was hideous ; there was 
a mastiff at the farm called Jack, and in their village 
there was Jack Beddoes at the post office, and Jack 
Crumpton, and little Jack Quain, the cowherd’s boy ; 
if she might call her son Murdoch, and then hope re- 
vived, though before long it was frustrated by Jack 
himself. “Boy hates Murdoch, me is Jack — Dada’s 
Jack,” and the baby rebel stamped his tiny foot 
angrily. Yes, as soon as he could lisp. Jack went over 
to the enemy. “ Dada’s Jack” soon proved himself to 
be his father’s son. 

Poor Isabel, her case was a hard one. Vainly did 
she strive to stamp her own thoughts, her own person- 
ality on her idolised boy. He was Richard’s second 
self ; and except that he had his mother’s bright 
dark eyes, and brown skin, he bore no further resem- 
blance to her. 

It could not be denied that Richard gloried in his 
boy’s partisanship. From the hour that Jack could 
toddle beside him, they had been chums, and Dad and 
Dada was Jack’s household divinity. “Won’t you 
stay with mother, Jack?’ ’ Richard said to him once, when 
he saw the sad yearning look in his wife’s eyes ; 
“poor dear mother will be so dull.” 

“Yes, but she won’t kye — mother never kyes,” and 
Jack took firm hold of his father’s hand. “ Boy’s com- 
ing with Dad,” and as usual Jack had his way, though 
Richard gave his wife an apologetic glance. ‘ ‘ He is a 
chip of the old block ; he is a Compton every inch of 
him,” he said to himself, as the little lad toddled be- 
side him, babbling about his pets ; and Isabel, sitting 
lonely in her grand drawing-room, was telling herself 
the same thing. 


8o 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


“ He is Richard’s boy, not mine ; already he takes 
after his father ; there they go, he is chattering to 
Richard like a litde magpie ; nothing would have in- 
duced him to stay with me, but I won’ t kye, no, you 
are right there. Jack.” For, long ago, Isabel had had 
to swallow her disinclination — ^Jack refused sturdily to 
answer to his second name. 

People who admired Mrs. Compton always said that 
it was a pity that Jack did not inherit his mother’ s 
beauty, and that with such good-looking parents, that 
he should grow up such an ordinary young man ; as a 
matter of fact he closely resembled his paternal grand- 
father, old John Compton. He had a short and rather 
clumsily built figure, which was more remarkable for 
strength than grace, and in his early youth he certainly 
failed to carry himself well. When Isabel walked be- 
side him up the church, with her stately and queenly 
air, and a certain indescribable grace of movement, 
inherited from her Andalusian mother, people were 
always conscious of some slight shock. Jack was not 
handsome either, in spite of his beautiful dark eyes ; 
his features were heavy and somewhat blunt, and he 
had a slow, quiet way of talking that irritated Isabel. 

And lastly, and this filled the cup of her humiliation. 
Jack was not clever ; in fact, in his mother’s opinion he 
was a perfect dunce. 

When other children were reading fairy stories. Jack 
had only just mastered his letters. ‘ ‘ Reading without 
Tears” was a verbal mockery, for Jack’s tears blotted 
every page long before he was six. Isabel in despair 
turned him over to the village schoolmaster, and wept 
scalding tears at the thought of her hardly acquired 
Latin. “ It is no use,” she said sorrowfully to Richard, 


THE MISTRESS OF.KINGSDENE 8i 


“ I have done my best for Jack, but he will not learn ; 
perhaps Mr. Ackroyd will manage him better,” and 
Richard agreed with her. It was the one point on 
which they did agree — their mutual anxiety for their 
boy’s good. 

But, alas, even in his father’s eyes. Jack was an in- 
corrigible dunce. He hated lessons, and even Rugby 
failed to turn him out decently equipped for the battle 
of life. It could not be pleasant to any father to hear 
that his only child was deficient in brain-power. ‘ ‘ Look 
here, Mr. Compton, ’ ’ the head-master said to him, ‘ ‘ I 
have watched your boy very closely. He is a good 
lad, there is no vice in him — ^you and his mother will 
rejoice to know that — but it is no good sending him to 
Oxford ; it will be just throwing your money away. 
He will not study, and what benefit will he derive from 
just keeping his chapels and rowing in the eight ? these 
are rather expensive luxuries. If you want to waste 
money over him, let him see the world ; that will open 
his eyes a little. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ His mother has set her heart on his going to Oxford, ’ ’ 
returned Mr. Compton, slowly. There was an anxious 
frown on his face. His health had begun to break just 
then, and he was inclined to take dark views of things, 
and it was a bitter pill to swallow. His only son, his 
good lad, was the veriest dunce that had ever left a 
public school. With infinite trouble he had scraped 
through a little Latin, and a good deal of History and 
Geography, but he could be taught little else. In 
fact, as Isabel had said with deep anguish of soul. 
Jack had defective brain-power ; he was slower than 
other boys. 

After a time Richard Compton’s good sense deter- 
6 


82 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


mined him to make the best of his disappointment. 
The deep affection between father and son only deepened 
as the years went on ; as Jack expressed it, they were 
excellent chums. 

One evening they were sitting together on the long 
terrace that stretched from end to end of the house. 
It overlooked the gardens, and from one point a break 
in the shrubbery gave them a lovely peep of the church 
and village. Mrs. Compton had gone back to the 
house, and was playing softly to herself in the dim light, 
but the two men had remained outside to finish their 
cigars and to enjoy the changing hues of the spring 
sunset. There was an indescribable feeling of peace 
and^freshness pervading the whole scene. ‘ ‘ The quiet 
breadths of evening sky’ ’ had a faint glow like the deli- 
cate blush on a maiden’s cheek. One small star glit- 
tered on the edge of a bluish-grey cloud. 

They had been talking somewhat confidentially. 
Richard Compton had been explaining some busi- 
ness matter on which he was much interested, and had 
warmed very much to his subject, and Jack, a little 
bored and mystified, had been listening dutifully. 

“ I wish I were not such a duffer,” he said presently, 
with a rueful smile. ‘ ‘ It puzzles me awfully sometimes 
to think how you ever came to have such a shallow- 
pated fellow for a son. Mother is so clever, and as for 
you. Dad ’ ’ but Richard only shook his head sadly. 

“Don’t call yourself names. Jack; it is bad form. 
We can’t all be cast into the same mould ; and when 
all is said and done, you are your father’s son, and I 
don’t know that I would change you, my lad,” and here 
there was a pleasant light in Richard’s eyes. 

“ I don’t think mother would endorse that remark,” 


THE MISTRESS OF KINGSDENE 83 

and Jack frowned and sighed. Jack worshipped his 
beautiful mother ; he thought there was no one like 
her, and it grieved him to the heart to know that he 
disappointed her. Then at the sound of Jack’s vexed 
sigh, Richard turned quickly and laid his hand on his 
son’s arm. 

“ You must not mind her sharp speeches, Jack,” he 
said, kindly ; “they mean nothing. You are just the 
apple of her eye, and her one thought. 

‘ ‘ Don’ 1 1 remember as clearly as though it were yes- 
terday, coming in and seeing her hushing you to sleep 
by the nursery fire. It was a sight a man never forgets 
in his life. If only some great painter could have 
sketched it. Your mother was always a grand-looking 
woman. Jack, and, by Jove, you were a fine little chap 
too. I made quite a fool of myself with the pair of 
you that day. But, there, I was never clever enough 
to satisfy her ; she ought to have married a member of 
Parliament, or the Solicitor- General, or a big journalist, 
or some one whose name is always before the public. 
Mincing Lane was not in her line at all, and as for the 
Dene ’ ’ and here Richard gave a whimsical grimace. 

“lam afraid I take after you, father, in one thing : 
I hate the flat,” and then again there was a twinkle of 
amusement in the elder man’s eyes. 

“Yes, we agree there ; but, my boy, there is one les- 
son you must set yourself to learn. When a man marries 
he is not altogether his own master. It must be give 
and take, bear and forbear, live and let live. Oh, I 
could write you a list of aphorisms, but there are some 
things you must work out for yourself. When I am 
gone,” here his voice grew a little solemn, “your mother 
must be your first care. Give in to her in little things. 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


84 

and hold your own in big ones. Now we are on the 
subject we may as well go on. There will be no need 
for you to bother your head about the shop ; Poynter 
will manage to keep things together, and by and by — 
in five or six years — you might take him into partner- 
ship. He draws a handsome salary now, but a part- 
nership in Compton and Son would be like a ducal 
coronet to a needy younger son, and would make the 
old boy happy. You were never cut out for a business 
man. Jack, and as I have feathered your nest well, there 
is no need for you to trouble. Have you any plans of 
your own ?’ ’ 

Jack’s eyes began to brighten ; then he drew Ben 
Bolt, his favourite fox-terrier, between his knees, and 
began patting him nervously. 

‘ ‘ There is one thing I should like. Dad : to go round 
the world, and take Ben Bolt with me.” 

‘ ‘ There is no reason why you should not have your 
wish, but not just yet, my boy. I could not part with 
you.” For already Richard Compton knew that a 
longer journey and a more distant haven were before 
him. All in good time. Jack ; but you must stop with 
your mother for a little. ’ ’ Then, as the tears rose to the 
young man’s eyes at this allusion, he added quickly, 
with that dread of a scene that is instinctive in a well- 
bred Englishman : ‘‘Don’t let us meet trouble half- 
way, Jack, my boy ; we will have some good times 
first, please God. Remember, whatever your mother 
may say, that I am perfectly satisfied with you. We 
were chums when you were in red shoes and white 
woollen gaiters, and we are chums still ;’ ’ and then 
with a half-tender, half-humorous smile on his face, he 
held out his hand to his son. 


THE MISTRESS OF KINGSDENE 85 

But when Jack had left him to take his dogs for 
their evening run, Richard Compton sat on still, look- 
ing out on the dark violet patches that had replaced the 
pink glow. 

‘ ‘ How could he fail to be satisfied ?’ ’ he said to him- 
self. “Could any young man be more manly and 
honest and clean- living than his boy ? He had never 
told a lie in his life ; he had never played a dirty 
trick or done a mean thing. Was a good heart and 
an unstained conscience of less value than a clever 
brain ?“ 

And again, if his Latin was nil and his spelling 
defective, could any young fellow of twenty ride bet- 
ter or straighter? He was a capital shot, too, and 
could swim like a fish, and he always scored splendidly 
at cricket. 

There was no game — football, golf, or tennis — at 
which Jack did not excel, and he had other capabili- 
ties. He was a capital carpenter, and could beat out a 
horse-shoe, and shoe his mare as well as the village 
blacksmith ; and he carved exquisitely, and even 
Mrs. Compton was proud of the cabinet he had made 
for her. 

As a colonist or pioneer he would have made his 
fortune, but many of his gifts were thrown away at 
Sandilands. “Jack ought to be a settler or back- 
woodsman,’’ Mr. Compton was saying to himself, and 
then his wife joined him. 

‘ ‘ Are you not sitting out too long, Richard ?’ ’ she 
said, anxiously. It is only April, remember, and the 
evenings are chilly.’’ Then Richard Compton threw 
down the stump of his cigar, and rose from his seat. 
“You are right, dear,’’ he said, quietiy, “and I was 


86 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


just getting a little stiff. Let us take a turn on the ter- 
race before we go in. Jack is letting the dogs loose,” 
and indeed the joyous barking of half-a-dozen excited 
creatures was distinctly audible. “We have had rather 
a serious talk, Isabel — the boy and I. I have told him 
that he need not go to Mincing Lane, except now and 
then to look at the accounts, and that Poynter will look 
after your interests. When you can spare him, you 
must let him have his wish, and go round the world. 
You need not fear to trust him, and, if you take my 
advice, you will just give him his head, and let him 
choose his own hobbies ’ but to this his wife made no 
reply. She had long ceased to argue any point with 
him ; only, when her opinion differed, it was her habit 
to preserve absolute silence. Richard was not certain 
that he did not prefer the old arguments. They 
had provoked and wearied him, but they were less 
chilling than this black silence that seemed to wall up 
their intercourse. 

“I hope your ladyship does not disagree with me,” 
he said, with an attempt at playfulness, as he took 
her arm. 

“ If I do not agree, I will not • argue with you, ’ ’ she 
returned with unwonted gentleness. ‘ ‘ I never want to 
trouble you in that way again,” and then she induced 
him to go indoors. 

When her husband died Isabel Compton was incon- 
solable for a long time, and other widows who had 
mourned more soberly and decorously were a little 
inclined to speak of her extravagant grief as wanting 
in resignation, but in reality a good deal was due to 
remorse. Isabel had loved her husband, but somehow 
she had failed in her wife’s duty. Constant friction 


THE MISTRESS OF KINGSDENE 87 

between those whom God had joined together was not 
only undesirable, but absolutely wrong. If she had 
only been more forbearing, if she had only understood 
his limitations from the first, and adapted herself to suit 
them ; but all their married life she had been trying to 
fit a round thing into a square hole, and had to thank 
herself for the total failure. ‘ ‘ I failed with Richard ; 
I was never good enough to him,” she said to herself 
with bitter tears, “but I will do better with Jack.” 
Ah, if one could only carry out one’s good intentions ; 
but human nature is weak and prone to failure. Be- 
fore many months had passed, the old arbitrary spirit 
had awakened again, and Jack’s affection and gener- 
osity were sorely tried. 

* ‘ Give in to her in little things and hold your own 
in big ones,” had been Richard Compton’s advice to 
his son, but it somehow seemed to Jack as if his 
mother wished to deprive him of all liberty. Perhaps 
her sorrow and loneliness made her unreasonably ex- 
acting, but nothing he could do seemed to please her. 
She was satirical on the subject of his carpentering, 
and accused him of taking bread out of an honest 
workman’s mouth, and laughed at his clumsy horse- 
shoes. The hours he spent at the Farm were a perpet- 
ual grievance in her eyes, and his dislike to the Flat 
and a civilised life was clownishness, the vulgar at- 
tribute of a Tony Lumpkin. 

“ Jack is so perverse ; he is as sulky and obstinate 
as a bear when one really thwarts him,” she said to 
her great confidante, the little Sister, for something of 
the nature of friendship had grown up between those 
two women, dissimilar as they were. “Oh, I know 
what you are going to say — that Jack is really sweet- 


88 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


tempered, and never says cross things to me, however 
sharp I may be with him. Don’t I know that too ; 
but do you not understand, Clare, how the opposition 
benches obstruct a bill that they do not mean to pass. 
Well, that is what Jack does. He says nothing, only 
he looks firm, and then goes and does the very thing 
I have begged him not to do. That was what Richard 
did. I never got my way with either of them ; I 
never shall.” 

But there was another speech very often on her lips : 
“ If I could only change places with Miriam Earle,” 
for, as all Sandilands knew, Miriam Earle had a very 
clever son, who was making his mark as a London 
doctor, and to the Mistress of Kingsdene the name of 
Felix Earle was as Naboth’s vineyard to the wicked 
king of Israel. 

“Thou shalt not covet,” sounded in Isabel Comp- 
ton’s ears every Sunday. Nevertheless, in the naught- 
iness of her secret heart, she envied Miriam Earle. 


NABOTH^S VINEYARD 


“Naboth’s vineyard,” or in other words, Felix 
Earle, had been from his earliest boyhood the pride of 
the village. 

He had been Mr. Ackroyd’s favourite pupil, and 
the good-hearted man had devoted some of his pre- 
cious evening hours, two or three times a week, to 
teach him Latin and the rudiments of Greek, but the 
clever, sharp-witted lad had soon outgrown his master. 

“Mark my words. Vicar,” Mr. Ackroyd would say, 
rubbing his hands together while his face beamed, 
“ Sandilands will be proud of Felix Earle yet; that 
lad has plenty of real grit in him,” and though the 
schoolmaster’s geese were not all swans, and Felix was 
never likely to prove “a village Hampden” or “a 
mute inglorious Milton,” still it could not be denied 
that he had undoubted talents, and a thirst for knowl- 
edge that was not easily slaked. When Miriam Earle 
responded to that clause in the Litany, “ From pride, 
vainglory, and hypocrisy. Good Lord deliver us,” her 
thoughts always recurred to her boy. ‘ ‘ I hope I am 
not too much set up about Felix,” she would say to 
herself, “but when I think of him, sometimes I am 
most carried away with my pride in him ; and he is a 
good lad too, and never gave me an hour’s uneasiness 
since he was born ; not but what Madam up at the 

89 


90 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


Big House could say the same of her son ’ for out of 
respect for her foreign blood and dark picturesque 
beauty, Mrs. Compton was generally called Madam in 
the village. The women of the place respected the 
mistress of Kingsdene, but even Miriam Earle — the 
cleverest and brightest of them — found it difficult to 
get on with her. “ Madam has a way with her ; she 
is a bit too high and mighty for the likes of us, ’ ’ she 
would say. “One could not love her as one loved 
Miss Patience. Ah, she was a saint was Miss Patience, 
and the Vicar, poor man, is just lost without her. But 
Madam has got her troubles too ; no one could look in 
her face and not see that ; but there, I must be careful of 
my words, or I shall have Pen flying out at me — that 
girl fairly worships the ground that Madam treads on. ’ * 

The cottage where Miriam Earle lived with her step- 
niece and adopted daughter, Penelope Crump, stood a 
little above the post-office at Audley End. 

Audley End comprised two long straggling streets 
just beyond The Silverdale Tavern, each street open- 
ing out on a strip of open common. The road where 
Miriam’s house stood was generally called the Street, 

‘ ‘ and going down Street’ ’ in Sandilands always meant 
an errand to the post-office or the Bakery. Miriam’s 
cottage resembled all the others, there was the same 
red-bricked path leading up to the door ; the same 
gay garden-plot full of profusely blooming plants ; the 
same beehive chair and bench in the ample porch ; but 
instead of the row of red geraniums in the window 
there were three glass canisters, one containing spiced 
gingerbread nuts with a delectable almond on each, 
another filled with puffy doughnuts, and a third dedi- 
cated to a particular apricot sandwich that was esteemed 


NABOTH’S VINEYARD 


91 


a special delicacy in Sandilands. There, since her 
husband’s death, Miriam had lived and carried on a 
thriving trade : no such cakes as hers were to be tasted 
ten miles round Sandilands. 

When the mistress of Kingsdene gave one of her 
garden or winter tea-parties, the housekeeper always 
ordered a goodly supply of cakes from the Bakery, as 
Miriam’s cottage was termed, and even Mrs. Gatlin at 
the Vicarage bespoke Miriam’s help at the school treats 
and choir suppers and other parish functions ; and 
nothing pleased the good ladies of Sandilands more 
than when some smart London guest praised the choc- 
olate, or Sultana cake, and asked if they came from 
Fullor Buzzard. 

Miriam Earle took an innocent pride in her own 
handiwork ; she was quite aware that her fame had 
travelled to Brentwood and Donarton. Did not the 
Squire’s lady at Donarton Grange actually drive over 
herself to order all manner of good things when Miss 
Frances was married. 

Felix used to joke his mother sometimes and call her 
a vainglorious woman. “ Sandilands can’t get on with- 
out you, mother,” he would say. “The Bakery is as 
famous in its way as Kingsdene or the Vicarage,” and 
she always answered him seriously. 

“ I doubt they’ll miss me pretty badly, lad, when I 
am gone,” she would say in her brisk way as she rolled 
out her rich paste. It was quite a liberal education to 
see the little woman at her work, her fresh round face 
looked as sweet and wholesome as a ripe russet apple ; 
and her trim, neat figure in the black cotton gown, and 
grey and black checked shawl pinned invariably across 
her chest, and the widow’s cap set so nattily on her 


92 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


glossy hair, gave her an air of respectability ; one en- 
joyed the cakes all the better when one had watched 
the busy fingers — and then to see the lavish hand with 
which she showered the good things. 

Miriam never parted with one of her recipes, that 
was her one niggardliness ; the thumbscrew and the 
rack together would not have induced her to divulge 
her secret with regard to her almond gingerbread nuts, 
and not all Miss Batesby’s teasing and coaxing could 
draw it from her. 

Miss Batesby could buy as many as she liked fresh 
and new from the oven every Tuesday and Friday, and 
the doughnuts on Wednesdays and Saturdays, the 
apricot jam sandwich never failed. “We have it al- 
ways on hand,” as Miriam assured her rather solemnly. 

‘ ‘ But, Miriam, ’ ’ remonstrated the spinster, mildly, ‘ ‘ it 
is not for myself I want it ; I have told you that before. 
Of course it is right for you to have your own monopoly 
in Sandilands, and no one would grudge it to you for a 
moment ; but it’s my poor sister in London ; she is a 
widow, you know, and has a large family, and she is 
trying to make ends meet with that school of hers at 
Highbury. You are a widow yourself,” looking re- 
proachfully at Miriam’s crisp cap border, “and you 
ought to feel for a woman in the same affliction. ” “ In- 
deed, Miss Batesby, you are right there, ’ ’ and Miriam 
took a handful of rich amber peel in her plump palm 
and eyed it critically. “Never spoil the ship for a 
hap’orth of tea,” was her favourite axiom; “put in 
twice as much as the cookery book tells you and you 
will be about right. ’ ’ 

“Yes, Miss Batesby, you are speaking gospel truth 
there, and I felt sadly put about when I saw Mrs. Mar- 


NABOTH’S VINEYARD 


93 


pie last summer, she looked for all the world like a 
cucumber run 'to seed ; but having the recipe for my 
almond gingerbread cakes won’t help her to fill her 
school, so you will kindly excuse me from going from 
my rule ; but if you are making up a parcel for High- 
bury about Christmas time, and would like a dozen or 
two of the almond nuts for the children, why, say so, 
and you will be kindly welcome, ’ ’ and Miss Batesby, 
who had no pride, and was heavily weighted with small 
means, and a number of needy nephews and nieces, 
actually closed with this generous offer. 

Miriam’s work was always carried on in the inner 
room which served as kitchen and bakehouse ; it opened 
on a pleasant yard where Pen’s numerous family of hens 
and pigeons lived. In the outer room, a deal table 
scoured freshly every morning held her stock-in-trade, 
the other part was used as a living room by the family, 
there stood the old grandfather’s clock that had been 
an heirloom in the family for generations ; on the little 
round table they ate their simple meals, and there Pen 
stitched and mended and kept a wary eye on the small 
boys who crowded round the window. 

An old fashioned bureau with a couple of shelves 
filled with books, and a reading-lamp with a green 
shade, represented Felix’s study ; and here for the first 
seventeen or eighteen years of his life Felix lived a 
hardworking uneventful life, dreaming dreams and see- 
ing visions, all of which he would pour into Pen’s sym- 
pathetic ears. 

Pen was only a few months younger than Felix, she 
was a fair delicate-looking girl, not pretty, but with a 
certain capability for beauty in her face. Her eyes 
were full of expression, and her smile was very sweet : 


94 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


by nature she was reserved and somewhat silent, and 
no one, not even her adopted mother, guessed the in- 
tensity of her affection for the handsome clever lad who 
had been her playfellow. 

When he was a mere boy, Felix had announced that 
he and Pen meant to marry each other some day, and 
as they grew up it was understood in Sandilands that 
they were sweethearts, perhaps on Felix’s side it was 
mere lad’s love, but at that time Pen was certainly a 
necessity to him. No one else so thoroughly under- 
stood and sympathised with him, his most startling 
theories failed to alarm her, she would sit for hours 
content to listen only to his rhapsodies, and all his rest- 
lessness and discontent with his humble environment 
never drew a repining from her lips. 

When he told her that he must go up to London — 
and work — though the separation was like death to her, 
she acquiesced without a murmur, and only strove to 
reconcile her aunt to the parting. From her earliest 
years Felix had completely dominated her, and his will 
and opinions were hers. 

Doubtless this submission on Pen’s part was a subtle 
form of flattery to Felix. Pen’s gentleness and ready 
response soothed him, and then she was more refined 
than the other girls in Sandilands. Even when he was 
walking the London hospitals and visited at the houses 
of his fellow-students. Pen did not at first suffer by 
comparison with his friend’s sisters, they were smarter 
and more cultured, but a little of Pen’s modesty and 
simplicity would have improved them he thought, and 
during his brief visit home he seemed just as eager to 
talk to her as ever. Felix was certainly born under a 
lucky star, he always turned up trumps as Mr. Cornish 


NABOTH’S VINEYARD 


95 


told him. Now it so happened that Richard Compton’s 
most intimate friend was a famous London surgeon ; 
Bob Burnaby, as he was always called by his intimates, 
had been at Charterhouse with Richard Compton, and, 
though on leaving school their paths in life had widely 
diverged, Richard going to Mincing Lane and Bob 
Burnaby to Cambridge, they had never lost sight of 
each other, and before Mr. Burnaby married, he often 
came down to Kingsdene to snatch a few whiffs of sweet 
country air. 

When Felix was about seventeen or eighteen, Mr. 
Burnaby had a serious accident that nearly cost him 
his life, and for some months his medical advisers rec- 
ommended entire rest and quiet ; when this reached 
Richard Compton’s ears nothing would satisfy him until 
he got the invalid to Kingsdene. 

“You can be as quiet as you like,” he said, ruefully, 
for, being the Season, he and his wife were at their 
Flat, “but I shall often run down to see you,” and as 
Mrs. Burnaby was a sensible woman, she soon per- 
suaded her husband that it would be folly to refuse his 
friend’s offer. 

“Kingsdene is a thoroughly comfortable house,” 
she said, quietly, ‘ ‘ and Mrs. Compton always has such 
good servants, if we take Hatton with us, we shall not 
give much extra trouble, and it will be so pleasant for 
you, Robert, to sit out on that lovely terrace, now you 
cannot walk,” and then Mr. Burnaby allowed himself to 
be persuaded, and for more than two months he and his 
wife enjoyed Richard Compton’s hospitality. 

It could not be denied that the society of the clever 
doctor was a treasure trove to Mr. Wentworth, and after 
a time he went daily to Kingsdene. 


96 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


One Sunday, when Mr. Burnaby was well enough 
to attend service, he asked the name of a handsome 
dark-looking youth in the choir. ‘ ‘ He has a won- 
derfully intelligent face,” he said, I could not help 
noticing him.” 

“Oh, that is our village genius,” returned the Vicar, 
smiling ; ‘ ‘ you should ask Ackroyd about him ; he is 
his pet pupil. His name is Felix Earle, and that fair 
girl who joined him in the porch is his sweetheart, all 
the lads have their lassies in Sandilands, he really is a 
clever fellow, even Cornish owns that. I lend him books 
sometimes, and Ackroyd is teaching him Latin. I hear 
his great ambition is to be a doctor. ’ ’ 

“Tell him to come up and have a talk with me,” and 
in this way the celebrated London surgeon and Felix 
Earle became friends. 

Mr. Burnaby soon took a real liking for the clever 
ambitious lad, who told him straight out to his face that 
he would never rest until he became a medical student. 
“ Of course I know the difficulties, sir,” he went on, as 
they sat together on the terrace ; ‘ ^ my mother is only 
a poor woman, and my father was the village sexton ; 
but every one has the right to do the work he is cut 
out for, and I know if I could have my chance I should 
get on. You will not think that I am boasting, Mr. 
Burnaby, sir, if I say I have learnt all that Mr. Ack- 
royd can teach me, the Vicar will tell you the same. I 
owe the master a debt ; I shall be grateful to him all 
my life for the Latin and the Greek he has taught me ; 
but there are other things that I must learn, heaps of 
things,” and here Felix clenched his hands nervously. 
Poor lad, the thought of his own ignorance fevered 
him as he tossed through many a wakeful hour on 


NABOTH’S VINEYARD 


97 


his truckle bed. Often Pen was awake too, listening 
to him ; how was she to sleep when she knew Felix was 
restless ? 

Mr. Burnaby said very little, but he encouraged the 
lad to talk ; he even took the trouble to put him 
through his paces, but whatever he felt he kept to him- 
self ; but to the Vicar he avowed more than once that 
Felix Earle had undoubted talents. 

‘ ‘ Ackroyd is right, and he will make his mark, but 
he must have a fair chance,” and then he lapsed into so 
brown a study that his wife first scolded him and then 
coaxed him into taking a stroll with her. “You must 
not think, Robert, ’ ’ she said, severely ; ‘ ‘ your poor 
head is to rest, you know that,” and then she talked to 
him in her cheery, comfortable way about the flowers 
and the birds and the beauty of the June tints, for if 
ever a hard- worked doctor had a good wife that woman 
was Grace Burnaby. 

There were no children in the handsome house in 
Harley Street, that was the one bitter drop in their 
cup. The prosperous surgeon would never have a son 
to inherit his honours and to be proud of his father’s 
name, and though Grace Burnaby strove not to repine 
unduly, her heart often ached because no little foot- 
steps and no prattling tongues made music in the 
house, and now and then she would hint to her hus- 
band that they might adopt a child, but he always dis- 
couraged this idea. 

“You shall do as you like, Grace,” he said once — 
‘ ‘ after all, it is more your affair than mine ; I am too 
much engrossed with my work to require any distrac- 
tion, but in my opinion we are happier as we are ; no 
child could be like our own ;’ ’ and then very reluctantly 
7 


98 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


she gave up the idea, and contented herself with visit- 
ing her creche, and spoiling all her young nieces and 
nephews. 

Mr. Burnaby was very silent and abstracted all the 
rest of that day, but in the evening he had a long talk 
with his wife, and the next morning he sent for Felix 
Earle. 

“Look here, Earle,” he said, in his curt way, “I 
have been thinking things over, and I have made up 
my mind to give you a helping hand. I am going 
back to Harley Street in about a fortnight, and if you 
like, and your mother approves, you shall go up with 
me, and enter at King’s College. I know a decent 
place where you could get rooms, close to the British 
Museum ; an old butler of mine takes in some of the 
students, and his wife is a nice motherly woman. No, 
please, don’t interrupt me,” as Felix with a crimson 
face tried to interpose a word. “ I want you to hear 
me out. I am a busy man, and have no children ; if 
my life is spared, I shall probably be a rich one. It 
will be no inconvenience to pay all necessary expenses 
until you can earn money for yourself. It is a matter 
of pure business,” he went on in the same cool dry 
tone, for his keen eyes saw that the poor lad’s agita- 
tion threatened to overmaster him. “ I do not give you 
the money, I only lend it ; when you have done your 
hospital training, and have taken some grand berth, it 
will be time enough to talk of repayment — until then,” 
and now his hand rested kindly on Felix’s shoulder, 
“you must let me do my best for you.” And it was 
in this noble way that Mr. Burnaby became Felix 
Earle’s benefactor. 

Mr. Burnaby always spoke very lightly of his benefi- 


NABOTH’S VINEYARD 


99 


cence, he was living within his income ; neither he nor 
his wife had extravagant tastes ; if he chose to indulge 
in a little cheap philanthropy, no one could blame 
him. “ Besides,” he would add, ” I knew it would be 
a safe investment for my spare cash ; directly I spoke 
to the lad, I was sure that if we both lived, I should 
get every penny back,” and Mr. Burnaby was right. 

” Owe no man anything but to love one another,” 
had been Miriam Earle’s favourite text, and she had 
taught it to her boy ; but perhaps only Pen knew the 
deep gratitude and veneration that filled Felix’s heart 
for the man who had put out a helping hand to him. 

“ I am housed like a prince,” he wrote in one of his 
first letters ; ‘ ‘ Mrs. Mullins is such a kind woman, and 
reminds me a littie of you, mother — ^perhaps because 
she always wears a black and white checked shawl. ’ ’ 

“ Dear heart, Pen, just to think of that,” ejaculated 
Miriam, ‘‘and I bought my check at Crampton’s Stores 
twelve years ago, never thinking it would be the 
fashion. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Everything is so beautifully clean, tell Pen, and 
old Mullins is such a nice chap, all the fellows like 
him ; and it is so quiet, too. If it were not for the 
smuts and the dingy look of the house, and a curious 
want of sunshine, I should never guess that I was in 
London. Of course I see very little of Mr. Burnaby, 
but now and then I am invited to tea on Sunday, and 
then he asks all about my work. Tell Pen I wish she 
could go with me and hear the grand singing at the 
Foundling ; one of our fellows took me to Westminster 
Abbey last Sunday, it was just glorious. ’ ’ 

“Isn’t he happy. Pen?” Miriam would say, as she 
folded up the letter. And when Mrs. Compton came 


lOO 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


down from the big House to order a fresh supply of 
cakes, Miriam would treat her to ample quotations 
from her boy’s letter. 

There are odd contradictions in human nature. Mrs. 
Compton might easily have sent down her orders by 
one of her maids ; but though she secretly envied 
Miriam Earle, and her visits to the Bakery always de- 
pressed her, she could not keep away ; a necessity 
seemed laid upon her to follow, however grudgingly, 
step by step, Felix Earle’s career. She even gloated 
over every fresh success with a sort of morbid fascina- 
tion. 

Every stiff examination that Felix passed, every 
change in his hospital career, every fresh token of Mr. 
Burnaby’s interest in his promising prot^g^^ were all 
retailed by Miriam to Madam when she came down 
street ; when Felix became house surgeon at Guy’s 
the news was carried by the Vicar himself to Kings- 
dene. 

“ I saw Burnaby in town yesterday,” he said, “and 
he told me the news. He seems immensely proud of 
Felix. He says he is one of the cleverest fellows he 
has ever known, he has worked splendidly. He will 
be one of our first surgeons one of these days ; he 
actually said that ; his heart is in his work, and he 
thinks of little else ;’ ’ and these words, spoken by the 
kindly Vicar, were gall and bitterness to Mrs. Compton. 

Jack was enjoying his heart’s desire just then, and 
making his big tour round the world. On the whole 
he was having a good time ; though it must be averred 
Ben Bolt was a trifle demoralised. He rather stood 
upon his dignity as a British growler, and was inclined 
to be snappish to the Japanese and other foreign dogs. 


NABOTH’S VINEYARD 


lOI 


“His bark is more bumptious than it used to be,” 
wrote Jack, in one of his disjointed and straggling 
epistles. Poor Jack, letter-writing was not one of his 
accomplishments. “The other day he quarrelled with 
some Mandarin’s dog and insulted him grossly ; I had 
to give him a taste of the stick before he would leave 
off growling. Some of those little Japs are handsome 
little fellows ; if it were not for fear of Ben’s sulking, I 
would bring you home one as a pet. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Compton had not seen Felix Earle for years ; 
she had never come across him during his brief visits 
to Sandilands, but one evening they met in an unex- 
pected way. 

Mrs. Compton had been spending some weeks in 
town, and was returning to Kingsdene. By some 
mischance, when she reached Donarton, the carriage 
had not arrived, and she was left waiting for more 
than twenty minutes. 

It was a wet evening, and the few flies in attendance at 
the station were soon occupied by the other passengers. 
The only other occupant of the waiting-room was a tall 
dark young man in a grey overcoat, who was stand- 
ing by the window looking out rather discontentedly at 
the driving rain. When the station-master entered to 
tell Mrs. Compton that her carriage had at last arrived, 
he stopped on the way to speak to the young man. 

“The rain does not mean to hold off, sir,” he said, 
civilly ; “ there is a leaden look about the sky that I 
don’t like. You would be wet through before you 
were half way to Sandilands ; better let me send a 
message to the Inn for another fly. ’ ’ 

“Very well,” returned the other, and then Mrs. 
Compton interposed. The stranger was well-dressed 


102 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


and gentlemanly looking ; very likely he was some 
friend of Mr. Wentworth’s. His appearance was de- 
cidedly prepossessing, there could be no harm in show- 
ing him a little civility. 

‘ ‘ If this gentleman is going to Sandilands, Horton, 
I shall be very pleased to give him a seat in my car- 
riage,” she said plausibly, and then as Felix Earle 
turned his full face to her, with a sudden flash of recog- 
nition, she almost gasped with surprise. 

‘ ‘ Is it — can it possibly be ?’ ’ she began, nervously. 

“Yes, I am Felix Earle, Mrs. Compton,” he re- 
turned, a little embarrassed by her excessive astonish- 
ment. ‘ ‘ I suppose you find it difficult to identify me ; 
it is six years or more since I went up to London. ’ ’ 

“I should not have known you,” she returned, ab- 
ruptly ; ‘ ‘ but, Mr. Earle, I must not keep the horses 
waiting this wet evening, will you come, please ?’ ’ And 
then Felix took up his portmanteau, and the next 
moment he was seated opposite to her. 

The situation was a little strained, and neither of 
them felt quite at their ease. Felix, who was proud 
and sensitive, was in no mood for patronage, however 
kindly expressed, and, to do her justice, Mrs. Compton 
would have been unwilling to patronise him. 

Now and then, as they spoke on indifferent subjects, 
she looked at him keenly, and her heart felt like a 
lump of ice in her bosom. Why was she not the 
mother of such a son? what had Miriam done, poor 
simple body that she was, to earn such a blessing ? It 
was not Felix Earle’s handsome face that attracted 
her, it was the unmistakable look of power and in- 
tellect in his dark eyes and on his brow ; the very 
sound of his voice, cultured as it was, and with hardly 


NABOTH’S VINEYARD 


103 


a trace of his rustic breeding even to her critical ear, 
seemed to rasp the edge of her sensibilities. Mr. 
Burnaby’s proUgt was indeed a success, Mr. Ackroyd 
might well be proud of his old pupil. 

‘^Are you paying a longer visit than usual?” she 
asked, as they drove past the Vicarage, and Felix 
leant forward to look at the old grey house. The 
question roused him. 

“Yes, I have come for a whole week,” he returned, 
smiling, and his smile was a pleasant one. ‘ ‘ I have 
been over-working and am a bit slack, and Mr. Bur- 
naby insists on my having a few days’ rest. I suppose 
he is right, for I feel as though I should like to lie un- 
der the pines and do nothing but sleep. It would be 
rather soaking at present, though.” 

And then Mrs. Compton gave a forced laugh ; she 
was debating with herself whether she should ask him 
to call, but she decided that it would be wiser to let 
things be ; she could do that sort of thing in town, but 
at Sandilands, where everybody knew that Miriam 
made cakes for all the gentry round, it would never 
answer. And when the carriage stopped, and Felix 
jumped out with warm expressions of gratitude for her 
kindness, she only shook hands with him and wished 
him good-bye with ladylike civility, and then watched 
him with a heavy heart until he was out of sight. 

‘ ‘ Madam brought you from Donarton in her own 
carriage. Dear heart, who would have thought of 
such a thing ?’ ’ and Miriam beamed at her boy. And 
then Pen came out of the inner room with a large 
muslin apron pinned over her best dress, with a little 
pink flush in her cheeks, to bid him welcome. 

“We are glad to see you, Felix,” she said in a low 


104 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


voice, as he kissed her. “Auntie has been wearying 
for you for weeks but she looked down as she 
spoke, and he could not see the light in her eyes. 
“ Aunt Miriam, shall I bring in the tea, the cakes are 
just done to a turn ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ My child, do, and I will come and help you ; the 
poor lad must be starving, as well as tired. Sit you 
down, Felix, boy, in father’s chair, while I roast you a 
rasher of ham and boil a new laid egg or two ’ and 
Miriam bustled away, to pour out her motherly heart 
in loving service, while Felix, left to himself, looked 
thoughtfully round the low cottage room. 

Why was it, he wondered, that each time he came 
home it seemed smaller and lower ; but the change 
was in himself, not in the old home. He knew that 
the grandfather’s clock still ticked in its accustomed 
corner, and there was the bureau with his books above 
it, and the reading-lamp and blotting-case just as he 
had left them ; the old blackbird still sang in his wicker 
cage in the porch, and Sandy the old tabby cat lay on 
the wool rug before the hearth. Sometimes, when he 
had been too weary and jaded with his hospital work 
to sleep, he had thought longingly of his home, and 
pined for the sweet resinous scent of the firs and the 
fresh breeze from Sandy Point. And now, though his 
mother’s welcome was fresh in his ears, there was a 
faint cloud on Felix’s brow. 

Alas ! his mother’s world was no longer his ; he had 
chipped the eggshell of his boy’s existence and entered 
into a region of wider horizons — of work and thought 
and culture. He had got his foot on the social ladder, 
and was beginning to climb, slowly but certainly, while 
two fond women watched him from afar. 


NABOTH’S VINEYARD 


105 


Not that Felix was disloyal or fickle to either of 
them, he was far too manly and generous for that, un- 
til the day of his death his mother would be sacred to 
him, the simple homely woman, who brought him into 
the world, would never have to fear criticism or in- 
vidious comparison with his fine friends. 

“She is just my mother, and I would not change 
her for the grandest lady of my acquaintance,” he 
once said long afterwards to Penelope, and Pen be- 
lieved him. Nevertheless, as he looked round the 
humble cottage room, there was an unmistakable cloud 
on Felix Earle’s brow. 


Ill 


A LITTLE RIFT 

If Mrs. Compton had had a daughter, on whom she 
could have expended some of her surplus affections, 
she would have been a much happier and more con- 
tented woman, and her disappointment with regard to 
Jack would have been lessened, and in some measure 
shorn of its bitterness. 

In her early married life she had often amused her- 
self by imagining this visionary girl. 

She must be called Inez after her own sweet mother 
— and of course she would inherit her dark beauty. 
Boys were stubborn facts, and could not always be 
moulded and tutored, and already in her secret heart 
she feared that Jack would be a failure. But his sister 
would be different ; she would see things with her 
mother’s eyes, and, when she grew up, would realise 
all her ambitions. But alas, as the years went on, no 
dark-eyed girl came to inhabit the empty nursery at 
Kingsdene. Jack’s wife, whoever she might be, was 
not likely to be a daughter to her, she thought, regret- 
fully. His opinion on that subject would certainly not 
agree with hers. Some fresh-coloured country-girl, 
good-humoured, and with a dimple or two, was likely 
to be his choice, especially if she rode well, and had a 
pretty figure. In that case Jack would never concern 
himself with her pedigree, or trouble to inquire if her 
io6 


A LITTLE RIFT 


107 


dowry were likely to be equal to her good nature. He 
was far too casual and happy-go-lucky for that. In 
spite of his Scotch ancestry, he was as impetuous and 
improvident as an Irishman, and never looked ahead 
for consequences. 

With all her faults, Mrs. Compton had a loving, 
womanly nature. She still hoarded jealously the relics 
of Jack’s babyhood and boyhood. In her sad and 
lonely hours, she would sit and weep over them. 

Jack once saw a shabby little red shoe sticking out 
of his mother’s work-bag, but he never imagined, the 
dense, foolish fellow, that he had ever worn it himself. 
“It is just like her, she is so fond of the little kids,” 
he muttered as he poised it on two fingers, with a laugh. 
His mother, who entered the’ room at that moment, 
saw him replacing it in the bag, and gave him a queer 
look. She thought he was laughing at her, and the 
sound hurt her ; but she was far too proud to tell him 
so ; these little jars and misunderstandings were daily 
occurrences. Jack in his clumsiness was given to tread 
rather heavily on people’s toes. He made foolish 
blunders, and then laughed at them, and he had a 
habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong moment, 
that was sadly provoking to his mother. 

Mrs. Compton was not a woman of wide sympathies, 
but she was staunch and loyal to her friends, and could 
make herself much beloved by them, but with the ex- 
ception of ^Miss Patience, and, later on, Clare Merrick, 
she had few intimate friends in Sandilands. With the 
villagers she was a little standoffish. ‘ ‘ When Madam 
puts her foot down there is no getting over her, ’ ’ Jane 
Bowyers would say in her peevish tones, but then Jane 
Bowyers was a slattern and a bad manager. 


io8 THE TWO MOTHERS 

From the first, Penelope Crump had been a favourite 
of Mrs. Compton’s. There was something in the girl’s 
air of refinement and her modest gentle ways that 
pleased her, and, in her stately fashion. Madam took a 
great deal of kindly notice of Felix’s sweetheart. 

When Mrs. Trimmer’s eyes failed, Penelope’s skilful 
fingers were often of use in mending Madam’s old lace, 
or doing fine stitching for her. Trimmer had lived 
with Mrs. Compton ever since her marriage ; she had 
been Jack’s nurse, and afterwards filled the post of con- 
fidential maid. To her faithful Trimmer, Mrs. Comp- 
ton would speak more openly than to any other crea- 
ture. 

On her side, Trimmer was devoted to her mistress ; 
she was proud of her beauty, and took immense de- 
light in brushing out her glossy hair. “Few women 
of her age have such hair, Mr. Jack,” she would say 
sometimes. ‘ ‘ When she is sitting down it just sweeps 
the ground, and it is as black and glossy still as Mac’s 
wing. ’ ’ Mac being the abbreviation used by the house- 
hold for Machiavelli, Jack’s raven. Richard had chris- 
tened him, rather to his son’s disgust. “ It is an ugly 
name. Dad,” he had said discontentedly, and indeed, 
until he grew up. Jack was not clear who Machiavelli 
was. 

Mrs. Compton was always ready for a chat with Pen, 
when she came up to Kingsdene, bringing the work 
with her. The girl was singularly intelligent and fond 
of reading, and Mrs. Compton took a great pleasure in 
lending her books ; in this way Penelope was made 
acquainted with the best authors and poets, but she 
never spoke of these studies to Felix, though now and 
then he opened his eyes rather widely when she verified 


A LITTLE RIFT 


109 


a quotation. “That’s from Tennyson’s Idylls of the 
King, isn’t it, Felix?’’ she said once. But when he 
looked at her with a knowing smile, her colour rose. 

‘ ‘ Somebody reads my books, ’ ’ he said, laughingly ; 
“poor little Pen, she means to be a learned woman 
some day,’’ and he patted her hand ; but the trace of 
patronage in Felix’s tone jarred on Penelope’s sensi- 
tiveness, and she drew it away with unusual pettishness 
and changed the subject. She would not tell him, she 
vowed inwardly, that she only read the books to make 
herself a fit companion for him, and to cheat her own 
misery during those long weary days of his absence. 

When Mrs. Compton went down to the Bakery for 
the first time after Felix had gone back to his house- 
surgeon’s duties, she noticed a change in Pen. The 
girl looked worn and sadly out of spirits, and the violet 
shadows under her eyes gave them a deeper and more 
wistful look. 

‘ ‘ She is not happy ; that young man has disap- 
pointed her in some way, ’ ’ she said to herself, as she 
watched Pen’s languid movements and listless air with 
unfeigned solicitude, and all the remainder of the day 
she could not get the girl’s face out of her mind. 

But Mrs. Compton little knew what Pen was under- 
going during that week which she had hoped to be so 
happy. Day by day, and hour by hour, an invisible, 
yet most tangible wall seemed to be slowly building 
itself up between her and Felix. And yet there was no 
adequate cause for blame. Felix was as kind and 
thoughtful as ever ; he had brought her pretty gifts from 
London ; it was not possible for him to talk to her of all 
his hospital experiences ; there were limitations even to 
Pen’s sympathy and enthusiasm, and she would most 


no 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


certainly have drawn the line at the operating theatre. 
Felix could not share his greatest successes with her ; 
he could only hint darkly that he was following in his 
master’s steps. “He is grand,” he would say with a 
catch in his voice ; “he has saved more lives than any 
man in London. When other surgeons hesitate, Mr. 
Burnaby goes in and wins. If I work hard all my life 
I shall never come near him,” and Felix’s eyes lighted 
up with the fire of hero-worship ; but Pen, who knew 
what he meant, shuddered slightly. Her nature was 
timid, and she closed her eyes as much as possible to 
the grim realities among which Felix spent his life, 
“lam so glad that doctors never speak about their 
patients at home,” she said once, later on, to Mrs. 
Compton, but Madam only laughed. 

“ If I had married a doctor I should have made him 
tell me things, ’ ’ she said, in her abrupt quick way ; “ I 
could not have borne to have lived outside his work. I 
should have felt so out in the cold ; besides, all these 
scientific subjects interest me so much. I should have 
made a good hospital nurse myself, ’ ’ and Mrs. Comp- 
ton spoke the truth. 

The evening before Felix left Sandilands he asked 
Penelope to walk with him to Sandy Point. It was 
their favourite walk, and they both loved it. 

Felix was a little silent and thoughtful, and Pen, with 
her usual tact and unselfishness, did not try to rouse 
him from his abstraction ; but later on, as he lay at her 
feet on the soft thymy grass, and looked over the wide 
landscape that stretched below them, and which Clare 
Merrick always said reminded her of the Land of 
Beulah, Felix began to talk, but he seemed in rather a 
dissatisfied mood. 


A LITTLE RIFT 


III 


“ I don’t want my mother to be different, Pen,” he 
said, a little restlessly ; “ I am not such a cad as that. 
I should be a fool if I tried to turn her into a lady, or 
expected her to wear fine clothes and sit with her 
hands before her. Poor little mother, how miserable 
she would be ; but, all the same, I hate all this cake- 
making for folk who turn up their noses at us. ’ ’ 

Felix spoke with such extreme bitterness that Pen 
glanced at him in surprise. What had put him out 
she wondered, and then, being very quick-witted, she 
remembered that Madam had paid a visit to the Bakery 
that morning, and had given her orders in Felix’s hear- 
ing as he sat absorbed in his books. He had risen and 
bowed at her entrance, but she had only vouchsafed 
him a cool nod, and had spoken at once to his mother. 

* ‘ My cook tells me the last batch of cakes was not 
quite so good, Mrs. Earle,” she said, in her crisp, de- 
cided voice ; but Miriam, who was sensitive on this 
point, would not allow her to finish her sentence, and 
Madam was compelled reluctantly to listen to her volu- 
ble excuses. Something had gone wrong with the 
oven ; she had sent to her landlord, but he had not 
troubled himself to put things right ; she had been dis- 
satisfied with the cakes herself, but these accidents 
would happen, and she could assure Madam that the 
next baking would be quite to her liking. ‘ ‘ I have 
been making a Sultana cake for my boy to take back 
with him to London,” she finished ; “ and I do assure 
you, Mrs. Compton, that the paste just crumbled with 
richness.” 

Felix stamped his foot as he listened, and said a 
naughty word under his breath when Madam had gone ; 
Miriam looked a little aghast as he vented his indigna- 


II2 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


tion in no measured terms. “ Dear heart/* she said, 
placidly, “what have you taken into your head, my 
lad ; Madam meant no disrespect because she found 
fault with my cakes. Don’t I know she spoke the 
truth ; why, the oven would not heat properly ; don’t 
you mind my telling you so at breakfast, ‘ If all these 
cakes are not spoiled, my name’s not Miriam Earle’ ? 
those were my very words. ’ ’ 

“Mother,” burst out Felix, “I know I am wrong, 
and that my temper has got the better of me, but if 
you knew how it riled me to hear you excusing your- 
self to that stuck-up piece of elegance. Mrs. Compton 
may be rich, and have her carriages and horses and 
fine things, but you are as good as she is, and she shall 
know it too one of these days. When I have paid my 
debt, I will take you away from all this, and you shall 
only make cakes for me ; there is a good time coming, 
little mother, but we must wait for it.” But here Felix 
sighed rather heavily, and Miriam, who had listened to 
him very quietly, turned away with a queer little smile. 

‘ ‘ Poor dear lad, ’ ’ she said to herself, “ he is a bit upset 
with Madam’s brusque speech; he does not understand 
her as Pen and I do ; he is grieving about our humble 
ways, bless him. Perhaps his holiday has been long 
enough,” and here Miriam’s eyes grew a little misty ; 
for the first time she felt a sense of forlornness. “lam 
like the little grey hen,” she said to herself, with a 
sigh ; ‘ ‘ when she hatched the duckling among her 
chickens, and saw it sailing away across the pond, how 
she fretted and cackled ; I called Pen to see her fussing 
round. Well, London is just the big pond to me ; but 
my lad’s a good lad, and he will never be ashamed of 
his mother, because she had a humble up-bringing.” 


A LITTLE RIFT 


113 

Felix grew quite eloquent, as he talked and pulled up 
the little pink bell-heather and twirled the lovely things 
between his fingers, while Pen sat and watched him 
with her hands folded together in her lap. Pen was 
looking unusually well that evening ; she wore her best 
grey dress and her straw hat with a knot of yellow 
marguerites in the black velvet band. As she looked 
down into the green plain at their feet, her profile was 
turned to Felix, and half unconsciously he noticed the 
soft creamy colour of her skin and the bright glossiness 
of her fair hair. But Pen little thought that he was 
admiring her ; on the contrary, she was saying to her- 
self in a hard, bitter way, “ It is only Aunt Miriam he 
thinks about ; he is vexing himself with the thought of 
the money he owes to Mr. Burnaby, and the years that 
must pass before he can have his way and take her to 
London to keep his house ; but he litde knows, and 
I dare not tell him the truth, poor boy, that auntie is 
far happier as she is, making her cakes and sitting in 
the porch of an evening knitting socks and thinking of 
him, than she would be in the finest house he could 
take for her in London. Aunt Miriam would hate to 
be waited on by a lot of stuck-up servants,” she went 
on ; “ her fingers would itch to be mixing the dough 
and watching her oven ; but I dare not tell him this ’ 
and then a little dry sob rose to Pen’s throat. Poor 
girl, she had her own private grievance. Felix and 
she had kept company ever since they were children — 
that is how Pen put it ; she had only been ten years 
old when they had broken the crooked sixpence to- 
gether, and Pen had her half now, and was she not 
wearing the turquoise ring that Felix had put on her 
finger when he first went to London, and which he 
8 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


1 14 

had told her, with a boyish blush in his face, was one 
day to be replaced by a wedding ring, and yet for 
months he had never said one word about the home he 
hoped to make for her ? His work at the hospital, his 
debt to Mr. Burnaby, and his plans for his mother 
seemed to fill his mind. No wonder poor Pen was 
absent and sad-hearted, and that Felix for the first time 
found her lacking in sympathy. Once or twice she 
had spoken a little sharply. 

You must not be so touchy, Felix,” she had said 
once in a reproving voice ; “in this world it does not 
do to be bustling over with prejudices like a porcupine. ’ * 
Felix, who was in a sore mood that evening, felt him- 
self a little affronted. He wanted to be soothed and 
comforted ; Madam’s pride and stand-offishness, her 
want of neighbourliness had galled his self-respect, both 
his temper and his dignity had suffered, but Pen had 
no honeyed words for him. 

‘ ‘ There are thorns everywhere, ’ ’ she had said, With 
a touch of impatience in her voice ; “but there is no 
need to prick yourself ; please do not say such hard 
things of Mrs. Compton, we all have our faults, but 
she is a good friend to me, and I love her dearly. ’ ’ 

Pen had delivered her little protest with a quavering 
voice, she was on the verge of tears ; but Felix jumped 
up with a frown and a muttered pshaw, and walked to 
the end of the green slope. The grass where he had 
lain was strewn with the pale pink heads of the bell- 
heather that he had decapitated so ruthlessly. Pen 
gathered two or three and hid them in her glove, they 
were still warm with the pressure of Felix’s strong fin- 
gers ; as she did so, her eyes smarted with the tears 
she had repressed. 


A LITTLE RIFT 


115 

“It is getting late, and mother will be looking for 
us,” observed Felix rather sulkily over his shoulder. 
In certain moods one must find a victim to sacrifice, 
and an innocent victim will quite answer the purpose. 
Long before they reached Audley End, Felix had 
worked himself up into the belief that Pen had injured 
him. ‘ ‘ I never thought my old chum would have dis- 
appointed and failed me like this, ’ ’ he said to himself 
gloomily ; and he showed his displeasure so plainly 
that the poor girl cried herself to sleep. 

Felix was a little ashamed of himself when he saw 
Pen’s pale cheeks and swollen eyelids the next morn- 
ing, and spoke to her with unusual kindness. “You 
must write to me more regularly. Pen, I shall look for 
your letters,” he said, as he put his arm round her, 
for his parting caress ; but Pen made no answer to 
this, and there was no response to his kiss. The cheek 
she had turned to him felt cold and smooth as marble, 
and she shivered a little as she stood in the sunshine. 

About a week after this Penelope went up to Kings- 
dene with some work she had finished. She found 
Madam sitting in the bay window of her morning-room, 
writing to her boy. She looked up with a smile and a 
nod, as Penelope entered, and pointed to a chair. 

‘ ‘ Please sit down and rest yourself, while I finish 
this letter to my son, ’ ’ she said in a kind voice. ‘ ‘ There 
are some books on that table,” and then she wrote on, 
and Penelope turned over the pages of a novel list- 
lessly, while the raven Mac watched them from outside 
the window with his wicked glittering eye. 

Mrs. Compton did not hurry herself ; her keen eyes 
told her that Penelope looked unusually languid and 
weary ; she had made up her mind to question her on 


Ii6 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


the first favourable opportunity. ‘ ‘ Don’ 1 1 know what 
it is to be bitter and disappointed and unhappy ?’ ’ 
thought the widow as she folded up her letter ; “if I 
can help her I will,” and Mrs. Compton was a woman 
of her word. 

Perhaps it was because Pen was weak and overstrung, 
and needed comfort so sorely, that her shy reticence 
broke down so completely under Mrs. Compton’s kind 
sympathy. Madam could be soft and womanly when 
she chose. In a very little while Pen was telling her 
pitiful tale, and Madam’s kind eyes were full of tears. 

“ He has been my sweetheart all these years,” sobbed 
Pen ; “I never remember the time when he was not 
my first thought ; he is the dearest thing I have in the 
world. I should not know myself if I had not to think 
of him from morning to night. When I say my prayers, 
I sometimes forget to pray for myself I am so busy 
about him, and now it has come to this, that Felix is 
just tired of me. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Oh no, Penelope ; you would never convince me 
of that,” returned Mrs. Compton, quickly. “Felix 
Earle is not such a cad as to throw over the girl he 
has been courting all this time. I think better of him 
than that.” 

“Oh, you must not think I mean to blame him,” 
returned Pen, with a sudden flush. “ It is not his fault 
if he has grown weary of our sweethearting. Don’t 
you see how it is, Mrs. Compton ? Please put yourself 
into his place. Young men are so different from us 
poor village girls ; we grow stupid and dense in our 
limited little world, we see nothing and do nothing but 
sew and bake, and keep the house neat, and on Sunday 
we sing hymns and listen to the Vicar’s sermons.” ' 


A LITTLE RIFT 


117 

“Yes, Penelope, I am following you most attentively,’’ 
and Mrs. Compton’s voice was sweet to Pen’s ears ; 
Madam certainly was not stinting her sympathy. 

“And then think what a different world Felix lives 
in, ’ ’ continued Pen ; “it is not only his work I am 
meaning, but he visits at good houses, and mixes with 
clever people. I notice the little things he says, he is 
always talking about culture. There is a family who 
are very kind to him, and where he often spends his 
Sundays. They live in Upper Westbourne Terrace, 
and their name is Robertson. One of the sons is at 
Guy’s, and there are several daughters;” here Pen’s 
voice grew a little strained and high ; “ he often speaks 
of them by name ; they are all good-looking and ami- 
able. The eldest. Miss Laura, is a linguist, and trans- 
lates books, and Miss Florence, the second one, is mu- 
sical, and has taken her degree ; it was only the other 
evening Felix was praising them to Aunt Miriam. 
‘ They are cultured gentlewomen, but they love work, 
and are never idle a moment.’ I remember he said 
that ‘ Miss Pauline, the third daughter, is an artist, 
and exhibited in last year’ s Academy ; and Phebe, the 
little one, she is hardly grown up yet, means to be a 
hospital nurse.’ ” 

‘ ‘ And you are jealous of these industrious young 
ladies,” observed Mrs. Compton with a smile, and again 
a painful flush crossed Pen’ s wan face. 

‘ ‘ How can I help it ?’ ’ she returned in a stifled tone ; 
“ Felix likes them all, but I think he admires Miss 
Laura most, she is so handsome, and she is the cleverest 
of them all. Oh, Mrs. Compton, please do not despise 
me, but I often cry myself to sleep, thinking of the dif- 
ference between me and those girls. I have been 


ii8 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


teaching myself French for a long time, but I have no 
one to help me, and all my reading does not amount to 
much ; and then when Felix comes down here and 
sees me cooking and baking and ironing he compares 
me with the Robertson girls, and of course I suffer in 
his opinion.” 

Pen was silent from excess of feeling. To her the 
whole situation embodied a tragedy — the love of her 
life, the hero whom she secretly worshipped, had looked 
coldly and critically on his handmaid, and all Pen’s 
womanly nature was stung to agony — ^jealous, she was 
bitterly jealous. Laura Robertson’s visionary face 
haunted her very dreams; “if Felix loves her, she 
shall take my place, but I think my heart will break,” 
Pen would say to herself, as she wandered through the 
fir woods in the gloaming. 

Mrs. Compton had said little, but her thoughts were 
active ; more than once, as the girl talked. Madam had 
looked at her with strangely piercing scrutiny. 

Penelope had always attracted her ; she had long ago 
found out that the girl had a rare nature, but she had 
never felt so drawn to her as she did this day ; there 
was a modesty, a reticence, and a self-respect about 
Pen, that would have become the finest lady. Her 
manners were soft and pleasing ; she moved quietly, 
and her voice, with all its untrained rusticity, was very 
sweet. 

“A little cultivation would do wonders for her,” 
Madam thought ; ‘ ‘ she is one of nature’ s gentlewomen 
now, she is far too good stuff to be flung aside like a 
worn-out shoe, even by the most ‘ admirable Crichton’ 
in the world ;’ ’ and here Madam positively sneered, ‘ ‘ no 
one can be a better judge of such things than I am. I 


A LITTLE RIFT 


119 

have earned my experience. Penelope will never dis- 
grace Felix’s choice ; I would take my oath of that ; 
he need not be ashamed of his old sweetheart under 
any circumstances, but we must change the environ- 
ment and here Madam’s pretty foot with its arched 
instep tapped the floor a little restlessly, and then her 
eyes brightened, and she rose from her seat, and, with 
a gesture full of grace and kindness, held out her hands 
to the girl, 

* ‘ Penelope, you poor child, I am so sorry for you, 
but you must not take fancies or lose heart. You must 
be true to Felix in spite of his mannish and careless 
ways. I am going to help you both. I see a way to 
do it, but you must submit to be guided by me. Can 
you trust me ?’ ’ very meaningly ; ‘ ‘ will you for one 
year put yourself in my hands, and allow me to deal 
with you as though you were my own daughter ? Pe- 
nelope, believe me that you will never repent it. I shall 
be your best friend.” And then as Pen looked up into 
the older woman’s eyes, she read there such goodwill 
and sympathy, with such a perfect understanding of 
all her dim and confused pain, that her heart gave a 
little leap ; and as the kind hands pressed hers, she 
whispered, “I trust you perfectly; only help me to 
keep Felix’s love, and I will be grateful to you all 
my life. ’ ’ 


IV 


PENELOPE^S WEB 

The kindly folk of Sandilands were gready excited 
when they heard of Penelope Crump’s good fortune. 
Madam was going up to town for the winter — and 
Penelope was to accompany her as a sort of humble 
friend and companion. In the spring, Mrs. Compton 
hoped to meet her son in Paris — and would probably 
go to Venice with him, and Kingsdene would be empty 
until May. 

The Vicar, when he met Pen in the village, stopped 
and congratulated her warmly. “You are in luck, 
Penelope,” he said, kindly. “Mrs. Compton is a 
staunch friend — the duck pond is widening into a lake, 
you see — don’t forget what Benjamin Franklin says — 

‘ Vessels large may venture more, 

But little boats should keep near shore.* ” 

And then the Vicar, who could read hearts like books, 
and had long guessed the girl’s secret unhappiness and 
discontent, smiled at her, and bade her be wise as a 
serpent and harmless as a little dove. 

When the news reached Miss Batesby she put on 
her old hat and went down to the Bakery, with the 
ostensible purpose of ordering almond gingerbread, 
but she forgot all about her errand when she saw 
Miriam. 


120 


PENELOPE’S WEB 


I2I 


“What is this I hear about Penelope?” she began 
in her most incisive voice, and the slight staccato that 
she affected when anything excited her ; ‘ ‘ when Mrs. 
Catlin told me just now, when I went up to the Vicar- 
age to get a grocery ticket for those poor Bengers, I 
could not believe my ears. ‘Don’t tell me that Pe- 
nelope Crump can be so selfish,’ I said to Mrs. Catlin. 
‘ I have known her since she was so high’ — here Miss 
Batesby made an appropriate gesture — ‘when she was 
a curly haired mite in the infant school. She may 
have her faults, but ingratitude was never one of them, 
and would it not be rank ingratitude to leave Miriam 
Earle, who has been a second mother to her all these 
years ?’ ’ ’ 

Miriam, who had been rolling out paste energetically 
during this speech, looked up with her quick bird-like 
glance and shook her head. 

“ I am not denying I have been a mother to Pen,” 
she said, simply, ‘ ‘ and that I love her next to my own 
dear lad. Pen is a good lass, and has always given me 
a daughter’s service, but mothers have to part with 
their children sometimes, for their own good. See 
here. Miss Batesby,” she continued, grasping the 
rolling-pin more firmly, ‘ ‘ the girl has been needing a 
change sadly, she misses Felix, and Sandilands is over 
quiet for her. So when Madam came down and talked 
to us, and said how much she wanted Pen to go up to 
London with her, and what a comfort she would be to 
her with Trimmer away, of course I could not refuse. 
Oh, have you not heard,” as Miss Batesby pricked up 
her ears at this, ‘ ‘ that good-for-nothing brother of 
Mrs. Trimmer who has been such a trouble to her, is 
dying, and her sister-in-law has begged that she would 


122 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


come to them at once? They live near Perth. So 
Madam said that it was no use going so far for a week 
or two, and that she would spare her for six weeks, or 
even two months, if Penelope would take her place. 
It is not only the change for Pen, but to oblige Madam, 
so I was bound to say yes.” 

‘ ‘ That was very kind of you, Miriam, but you will 
miss her sadly. The winter is coming, you see, and 
you were never much given to visiting with your neigh- 
bours.” 

“Perhaps you are right there. Miss Batesby,” re- 
turned Miriam, cheerily. “ I was never one for gossip, 
and Pen takes after me ; but I am always glad to do a 
good turn for my neighbours. It is no use pretending 
that I shall not miss Pen, for it is lightsome and 
pleasant to hear her moving about the cottage, or sing- 
ing over her work, but I am hale and hearty, thank 
God, and I have never feared my own company. My 
lad and Pen are both famous letter writers, so I shall 
do very well — ^was there anything you were needing 
this morning. Miss Batesby ?’ ’ and at this plain hint Miss 
Batesby recalled her errand. 

Mrs. Compton’s shrewd brains and benevolent heart 
had certainly concocted a clever scheme for Penelope’s 
benefit. She had grasped the idea in a moment of in- 
spiration. Felix must see his sweetheart under differ- 
ent environment. The Bakery was not a satisfactory 
background. Penelope’s intelligence must be culti- 
vated and turned to account. She must be educated 
to keep pace with Felix : the scheme appealed most 
forcibly to Mrs. Compton’s complex nature. The 
woman so dissatisfied with her own environment, so 
disappointed in her own aspirations and ambitions, 


PENELOPE’S WEB 


123 


would find a new and absorbing interest in smoothing 
and determining the girl’s future. 

The hobby might be a costly one, but philanthropy 
is seldom cheap, and if a thing is worth doing, it is 
better to do it well. Mrs. Compton was not one for 
half measures, and she never feared trouble ; the 
moment she regarded Pen in the light of a prot^gte she 
began to feel a warm interest in the gentle sad-eyed 
girl, and to regard her with affection. 

It was rather curious, certainly, that Trimmer’s 
brother should play into her hands in this way. It 
gave her such a real pretext for desiring Pen’s services 
at once. Neither Miriam nor Pen could have refused 
to assist Madam in such a strait, even when Pen would 
have held back in her unselfish devotion to her aunt ; 
Miriam urged her forward. 

‘‘You must not be ungrateful, dear heart,” observed 
the good soul : ‘ ‘ if Madam needs you. Pen, you must 
go at once.” And then Mrs. Trimmer had come 
down to the Bakery to plead her mistress’s cause. 

“I am just torn in half, Mrs. Earle,” she said, 
wiping her eyes, ‘ ‘ I am bound to go to poor Joe, for 
he is my mother’s son and the youngest of us ; though 
he has been a thorn in my side ever since he grew up 
— but I am not going to cast it up against him, now 
he is on his dying bed, poor lad. If only his wife 
were not such a feckless creature, and there are six 
children too, and they have buried three. Don’t I 
know that it is my duty to go and stop a bit with them ? 
but it is the mistress I am thinking about, she has never 
been used to wait on herself, and that Susan is just no 
good at all.” And then Pen had promised to do her 
best for Mrs. Compton. 


124 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


Pen was a little hazy about things. She had no idea 
what duties would be required of her : to replace 
Trimmer and brush and dress Madam’s hair, and keep 
her clothes in order, would hardly bring her nearer to 
Felix. But when they reached the flat at Westminster, 
Mrs. Compton unfolded her scheme, and Pen’s eyes 
glistened with grateful tears as she listened. Madam 
would be very much obliged if Pen would give her a 
little help night and morning, as long as Trimmer re- 
mained away, but she must not think that she was in 
Trimmer’s position. “Trimmer is my maid, Penel- 
ope,” she said, kindly, “but I intend you to be my 
companion. I shall expect you to share my meals, 
and dine with me, and when you are at leisure, ’ ’ here 
Mrs. Comptom paused a little mysteriously, “I hope 
you will always sit with me. ’ ’ 

Penelope looked at her in a startled way. “And 
my duties,” she faltered. And then Mrs. Compton 
laughed and patted her hand kindly. 

“Your first duty will be to get some pretty frocks 
and hats, ’ ’ was the unexpected answer. ‘ ‘ Sandilands 
millinery will hardly do in town. Your next will be to 
work hard at your lessons. I am going to find some 
good masters for you. It is too late to think of doing 
much with music, but you have a pretty voice that de- 
serves to be cultivated. ’ ’ And then Pen’ s eyes widened, 
and the excited flush came to her cheek as she heard 
that she was to study French and elocution and Eng- 
lish literature, and to attend a deportment and dancing 
class. 

“No, Penelope, not one word,” she finished, as 
the girl tried to speak. “Remember your promise. 
To trust me implicitly and put yourself in my hands 


PENELOPE’S WEB 


125 


for a year. I am an autocrat, and shall exact a strict 
obedience even if for a time I forbid followers. ’ ’ And 
then Pen’s heart sank a little, for Mrs. Compton’s 
manner and the meaning tone in her voice told that, 
for a time at least, Felix’s visits would not be encour- 
aged. 

If the truth must be told, Felix was a good deal 
perplexed by this sudden move. He was not at all 
sure that he approved of it. His mother would be 
lonely without Pen’s companionship, and though Mir- 
iam wrote an energetic contradiction to this, he still 
remained unconvinced. 

He had not forgiven Mrs. Compton, either, for turn- 
ing her back on him that morning at the Bakery. 
Felix was thin-skinned and sensitive to small rebuffs ; 
and he hated the idea that any of his belongings 
should be beholden to her : but when Pen’s letter 
gave him a hint not to seek her out for a time, his 
wrath fairly boiled over. 

‘ * Why do you not tell me plainly that Mrs. Comp- 
ton objects to my visits?” he wrote back; “but she 
need not be afraid, I am not the sort of fellow to ob- 
trude myself where I am not wanted. As for taking 
you out for a walk,” for poor Pen had kindly sug- 
gested this, “we are so busy at the hospital just now 
that it is impossible to make plans beforehand. I am 
not likely to have a free Sunday for three or four 
weeks to come. Somehow it strikes me that we shall 
be as far apart in London as though you had remained 
at Sandilands.” 

Penelope was so much depressed by this letter that 
Mrs. Compton tried to comfort her by explaining her 
reasons for keeping Felix away. 


126 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


“My dear Penelope/’ she said kindly as they sat 
together one evening. “It is no want of goodwill to 
either you or Mr. Earle that has induced me to lay an 
embargo on his visits for the present. I must tell you 
sincerely that I want him to miss you a little, and then 
when you next meet, he will see you under new condi- 
tions.” 

“ If I could only be sure that he would not forget 
me, ’ ’ faltered Pen rather piteously. But Mrs. Compton 
only laughed at this remark. 

‘ ‘ Oh ! Penelope, you foolish child, ’ ’ she said, indul- 
gently. ‘ ‘ How can you be so morbid ? F elix is a good 
fellow. He will never be unfaithful to his sweetheart. 
He has not really cooled, only hard work and London 
life have absorbed him. Some of his views have 
widened. When he comes down to Sandilands he un- 
consciously compares you to the girls he has met in 
town and he finds it a little difficult to adjust his ideas. 
That is where I want to help you both. ’ ’ 

Penelope was silent — in her heart she was not con- 
vinced. The terror of the Robertson girls, and Laura 
Robertson in particular, was upon her, but her shy 
reticence made her hide her jealous pain. 

‘ ‘ My dear girl, ’ ’ went on Madam with unusual so- 
lemnity, ‘ ‘ the first duty we women have to learn is self- 
sacrifice for those we love best. If I had only learnt 
to efface myself twenty years ago, I should be a hap- 
pier woman now,” and here a sudden wan look of a 
past trouble crossed her handsome face. 

Madam’s far-sighted policy and worldly wisdom could 
not convince Pen. But she was submissive and docile 
by nature, and a strong will easily guided her, but for 
a time she chafed and fretted sorely under these unnat- 


PENELOPE’S WEB 


127 


ural restrictions. She would have worked and worried 
herself into a fever before long but for one sentence in 
Felix’s next letter. 

“What do you think,” he wrote, “ I am going to a 
wedding, and have invested in a frock coat for the occa- 
sion. I forget if I told you that Laura Robertson was 
to Dr. Carruthers : but anyhow, they are to 
be married next Wednesday. I hear Florence, the 
second one, is just engaged to Hazlitt, one of our 
fellows.” When Pen read this her eyes brightened, 
and she was so cheerful and animated that evening that 
Mrs. Compton longed to question her, but she had the 
good sense to refrain. 

Penelope had been more than two months in town 
before she and Felix met. And then it was by accident. 

There was to be a concert at St. James’ Hall, and 
Felix, who had a free afternoon, and hardly knew how 
to turn it to the best account, made up his mind that 
he would go and hear Signor Botticini. The Hall was 
rather crowded, but after a time Felix’s attention was 
drawn to a young lady who sat some seats before him, 
a respectable looking v/oman in black was on one side 
of her, and an old gentleman, evidently a stranger, on 
the other. 

Something in the turn of her head and her fair hair 
reminded him of Pen. And then he laughed at him- 
self, as though that fashionable coil of hair and little 
close velvet hat could belong to his simple village lass. 
“But Pen’s hair was quite as sunny and pretty,” he 
thought, " with a staunch determination to do his 
sweetheart justice, ‘ ‘ and she had just the same little 
shell-like ears. If she could only have dressed well,” 
he continued discontentedly; “but that eternal grey 


128 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


stuff gown of hers. One of these days I will buy her 
a silk dress and choose it myself. ” “ One of these 
days,” that was always how Felix ended his day 
dreams. Poor lad, that debt of his to Mr. Burnaby 
loomed before his eyes night and day. 

It was not until the concert ended, and the Hall 
began to empty, that the fair-haired incognito turned 
round, and to Felix’s intense astonishment — it was 
actually Penelope herself. She stood quite still with a 
lovely flush on her face, as he impatiently strode over 
the intervening benches that were between them. Mrs. 
Trimmer was beside her. Madam had a headache and 
had stayed at home. 

“ Oh, Felix ! how glad I am to see you again,” ex- 
claimed Pen, oblivious of everything but her lover, but 
Felix, who noticed curious glances in their direction, 
only tucked her hand comfortably under his arm. 
“Let us get out of this,” he said with masculine 
brevity. “We can talk better outside. What did you 
think of Botticini? Was he not glorious. Pen?” and 
Felix’s eyes looked bright with excitement. 

“ I thought I was in heaven,” returned Pen, yielding 
to enthusiastic feelings, ‘ ‘ for once in my life. I never 
imagined anything earthly could be so sweet. What a 
grand thing it must be to be a musician,” and then her 
hand pressed Felix’s arm timidly. ‘ ‘ Do not hurry so, ’ ’ 
she whispered, “the carriage will be outside, and I 
shall have no time to say anything,” and then Felix’s 
footsteps slackened at once. 

“I am going to spend Christmas with mother,” 
he said, abruptly, “but I shall only have two days’ 
holidays. Look here, Pen,” and Felix’s voice grew a 
little peremptory. “lam getting sick of being shunted 


PENELOPE’S WEB 


129 


off like this, and I am not going to stand it any longer. 
You can tell Mrs. Compton that you belong to me, 
even if you are in her service,” and here Felix’s mous- 
tache took a naughty twist. “And I mean to stand 
on my rights. Directly I get back, and have a free 
afternoon, I shall just wire to you to be ready for me, 
and I will take you into the Abbey, or to the Natural 
History Museum, or somewhere where we can get a 
shelter and a talk.” 

“ Oh, Felix, how nice that will be !” and Pen’s soft 
eyes positively shone with happiness. 

Felix had never been quite so nice to her before. It 
was not what he said — for they had no time for more 
than these few brief sentences, but it was his manner, 
and the way he looked at her, the new deference that 
seemed to mix with the old affectionate interest. 

‘ ‘ He looked at me as though he did not quite rec- 
ognise me,” she said artlessly as she related her en- 
counter with Felix. And Mrs. Compton smiled well 
pleased. “ It is beginning to work,” she said to her- 
self. “No doubt he thought her prettier and more 
attractive ; nothing suits her better than that little vel- 
vet toque. I noticed several people turned round to 
look at her last time. So you mean to call and take 
her out, do you, friend Felix. But we shall see about 
that. Penelope’s web is not spun yet.” And that 
night as Trimmer brushed out her mistress’s hair, still 
as black and glossy as Mac’s wing, she puzzled herself 
how she could best counteract Felix’s little plan. 

Fortune favours the brave — Mrs. Compton’s Machia- 
velian policy was strengthened by an unexpected ally. 
Jack wrote that he expected to reach Paris soon after 
the new year, and Pen was distressed to hear that 
9 


130 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


Madam had telegraphed for rooms, and that she and 
Trimmer were to pack up at once. 

“ But Felix,” objected Pen. 

“ Felix must wait till we get back again,” returned 
Madam in an unusually bracing voice. * ‘ My dear 
Penelope, do be reasonable. You have only just seen 
him, and my dear boy has been away for eighteen 
months.” And then poor Pen felt herself very selfish 
and held her peace. But in her own room she wept 
long and sadly over her disappointment. 

She wrote such a pathetic note to Felix to bid him 
goodbye that he was quite touched, and even a little 
conscience-stricken, and wrote back with much warmth. 
Felix often thought of Pen as he sat over his books in 
his dull lodgings. Sometimes, when wearied by mid- 
night vigils, he would put back his head, and close his 
eyes, for a brief rest ; it was strange how Pen’s face as 
he saw it that afternoon haunted him — the sweet, art- 
less blush on her cheek, and the gleam of sunny hair 
under the little velvet hat. It was Pen, the same dear, 
simple Pen of old ; and yet she was changed. ‘ ‘ She 
has grown somehow,” he would mutter to himself. 
“Mrs. Compton’s society has improved her. She 
must be giving her a good salary, or Pen would not be 
able to dress so well.” But in this Felix was wrong ; 
there was no salary paid to Penelope. Mrs. Compton 
was doing better for her than that. Pen had the best 
of masters: her wardrobe was renovated. “You are 
giving me everything,” the girl said to her one day 
almost sorrowfully. ‘ ‘ And how little I am doing for 
you in return.” 

“You are doing far more for me than you know,” 
was Mrs. Compton’s reply. But though Pen looked 


PENELOPE’S WEB 


131 

puzzled at this reply, she did not explain herself. How 
was she to tell the child that she had furnished her 
with a new interest and object in life ? That her days 
were no longer eaten up by ennui and vacuity ? That 
winter had been the most peaceful that she had spent 
since her husband’s death, and her anticipations of 
seeing her boy again added to her happiness. 

Her spirits were almost high when they reached 
Paris, and settled themselves into a charming suite of 
apartments, and though disappointment awaited her, 
and Jack was unable to join her for six weeks, the 
time passed pleasantly in showing Penelope the sights 
of Paris, taking her to picture-galleries and theatres 
and concerts, and superintending her lessons with her 
French and singing mistresses. 

After all Jack came a day earlier than he was ex- 
pected. Mrs. Compton and Trimmer had driven out 
to make some purchases, and Penelope was practising 
her scales in the big empty salon. Pen always enjoyed 
these hours of solitude, her voice seemed to ring out 
more truly, and to reverberate more clearly through 
the rooms. How gorgeous these apartments seemed 
to Pen, with the red velvet chairs and couches ; the 
gilt clock and girandoles ; the pots of gay tulips and 
hyacinths. 

Pen slept in a wonderful brass bedstead with grand 
tent-like curtains drawn round it. The wardrobe was 
black and polished, and there was a marble-topped 
table, and arm-chairs. Only the small ewer and basin, 
and the tiny fringed towels struck her as somewhat in- 
congruous, but Madam soon brought her English cus- 
toms into vogue. 

‘‘Do, re, mi, fa, sol ” sang Pen, and then she 


132 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


started as a cold black nose was laid confidingly on her 
lap. The sight of a fox terrier bewildered her. ‘ ‘ Come 
here, you rascal. How dare you interrupt a lady,” 
exclaimed a familiar voice, and Pen, turning round 
hastily, saw a thickset sturdy young man in a fur coat, 
whose bronzed face wore rather a perplexed expression. 

‘ ‘ I beg your pardon ! Have I made a mistake ?’ ’ 
asked Jack, with a trace of anxiety in his voice. ” Is 
not Mrs. Compton staying here. No. 3 Rue de Lux- 
embourg ; that was surely the address ’ and then Pen 
rose, blushing, and somewhat distressed. 

“ Oh, no, you have made no mistake, Mr. Compton. 
But your mother did not expect you until to-morrow, 
and she and Trimmer have gone for a drive. Oh, how 
vexed she will be ! But she will be back ! Oh, yes, she 
will be back for our English five o’ clock tea — nothing 
will induce Madam to miss that.” 

“Madam! by Jove. I believe you are Penelope 
Crump. I could not be sure of it before, but ‘ Madam’ 
settles it.” And here Jack caught hold of Pen’s hands 
and shook them heartily. “ How is Felix getting on? 
Is he still at Guy’s — and Miriam — my word, if I only 
had some of her gingerbread now. Tell me about 
everybody, the Vicarsand Miss Merrick, and — oh, yes, 
I know about dear Miss Patience.” For it was only 
the previous summer that Miss Patience had gone 
home. ‘ ‘ Do you know, Pen — please excuse me, old 
custom, you see, but of course it must be Miss Crump 
now — that though Ben Bolt and I have been round 
the world, we think that there is no place like San- 
dilands. ’ ’ 

This was the speech that reached Mrs. Compton’s 
ears as she hastily crossed the ante-room. The con- 


PENELOPE’S WEB 


133 


cierge had told her that Monsieur her son had arrived. 
The little hall was all littered up with portmanteaus, 
gun-cases, heavy boxes, and bundles of wraps and 
waterproof coverings. A mongoose was making clock- 
like sounds as he peered through the bars of his 
cage ; and a small tawny monkey chained to the 
umbrella stand was holding out its tiny paws to every 
passer-by with an expression of woe in its melancholy 
eyes. 

“Oh, Jack, Jack!” And then Ben Bolt barked 
lustily. And Jack, with a sudden flush on his face, put 
his arms round the excited and sobbing woman who 
clung to him so convulsively. 

“Mother, darling mother, do not cry so,” he said 
in a choked voice. ‘ ‘ I will never leave you again in 
this way. It has been awfully jolly, and, on the whole, 
Ben Bolt and I have had a good time, but there is no 
place like home.” And then, as Madam looked into 
her boy’s honest eyes, she knew that Jack had returned 
to her unchanged. 


V 


TRANSFORMATION 

‘ ‘ The best laid schemes o* mice and men gang aft 
a-gley,” as Burns tells us, and Mrs. Compton soon 
realised the truth of this saying. 

Before many days had elapsed she came reluctantly 
to the conclusion that her visit to Venice must be 
given up for the present. 

Often since her first visit, many years ago, Venice 
had haunted her like a dream of beauty, and she had 
longed to see it again. 

She had anticipated a great deal of enjoyment from 
witnessing Penelope’s wonder and delight when she 
first found herself in a gondola, being steered down 
dark, narrow canals under mysterious bridges, and past 
frowning prisons and great marble palaces, but all these 
tempting plans were frustrated by Jack’s odd choice of 
travelling companions. 

Ben Bolt, indeed, might have been tolerated ; he 
had been round the world, and knew a thing or two, 
and he could be trusted to be on his good behaviour 
under any circumstances ; but a perpetually ticking 
mongoose who was disagreeably tame and fond of 
human society, and a small romping monkey, with a 
woebegone visage and a diabolical tendency to mischief, 
were simply unendurable. To be accompanied by a 
travelling menagerie, for a huge snow-white cockatoo 
with a yellow crest had turned up a few hours later, 
134 


TRANSFORMATION 


135 


was plainly an impossibility, and even Penelope sorrow- 
fully admitted this. Jack took the whole matter after 
his usual fashion, with a sort of airy good nature. The 
Madre need not trouble herself ; he would cart off the 
big cases, and the mongoose, and the cockatoo, and 
the small tawny-haired embodiment of original sin, to 
either Kingsdene or Brentwood Farm. The journey 
would be nothing to a fellow who had just been round 
the world, and he and Ben would be back in no time ; 
but to Jack’s surprise, and somewhat to his disappoint- 
ment, his mother objected to this. 

Jack must not go home alone ; the idea pained her. 
After an absence of eighteen months, she could not 
bring herself to part with him even for a few days. Her 
visit to Venice could be put off until next year. They 
could stay at Paris for a week or two longer, and then 
go straight back to Kingsdene. She must give up all 
idea of the Flat until later in the year. 

Penelope listened with a sinking heart as Mrs. Comp- 
ton retailed her plans. She looked so pale and wistful 
that after considerable thought Madam decided that 
some modification of her plan was necessary, and at last 
she took Jack into confidence. 

Jack was immensely tickled and interested. In spite 
of his want of cleverness, he had plenty of common- 
sense. * ‘ Why should we not run up to town in May 
for a week or two?” he suggested, rather to Madam’s 
surprise, for she knew how he abhorred the Flat. 
‘ ‘ There is to be a dog show that I rather want to see, 
and then you could ask Felix Earle to dinner ; you and 
Trimmer might invest in a Parisian toilette for Penel- 
ope ; and as I am bound she has never seen Felix in 
his war-paint, they will be mutually struck with each 


136 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


other, and fall in love over again,” and here Jack threw 
back his head with one of his old merry laughs, and 
then strolled off to visit his menagerie, leaving Madam 
to digest this advice at her leisure ; but in the end she 
took it, with one or two amendments, and Pen was 
infinitely consoled. 

Jack’s joy at beholding Sandilands again almost 
scandalised his mother’s feelings of propriety. He 
shook hands rapturously with every one he met, even 
the railway porters. More than once he made the 
coachman pull up the horses that he might jump out 
and greet some familiar face. The children at the 
Lodge grinned from ear to ear when they saw him. 
“ Here be the young master!” shouted little Job, shuf- 
fling into the Lodge, and Mrs. Tennant flung on a clean 
apron, and came forward curtseying and smiling. 

“It is a good day for Sandilands, Mr. John,” she 
said, as the young Squire wrung her hand, “and I’ll 
be bound Madam thinks so. You are looking fine and 
hearty, sir,” and then Jack nodded, and swung little 
Nan up to his shoulder. She was a small blue-eyed 
mite of three. “Job, if you and Silas like to come up 
to the house to-morrow morning, ’ ’ he said, in his good- 
humoured way, ‘ ‘ I will show you a live monkey, and 
a cockatoo, and a wonderful little animal they call a 
mongoose,” and then he kissed Nan, and putting a 
bright shilling into each of the boys’ grimy hands, 
jumped into the carriage again. ‘ ‘ Dear old Kings- 
dene, it looks lovelier than ever,” he said, admiringly ; 
and then there was a great flapping of wings from the 
terrace, and Machiavelli, with a hoarse croak of ex- 
ceeding joy, came hopping across the grass to welcome 
his master. 


TRANSFORMATION 


137 


Before twenty-four hours had passed, Mrs. Compton 
told herself that eighteen months of travel had done 
very little for Jack. He had had a good time and 
enjoyed himself, and he had brought back several cases 
of curious and interesting things — wonderfully em- 
broided mandarin robes, Japanese weapons and ar- 
mour, lacquered work in red and black, ivory carving, 
strange old temple lamps, a kibachi or fire box, wadded 
futons, and brass and silver-tipped pipes, and even a 
complete dress worn by some pretty dark-eyed Musu- 
mee. Madam and Penelope looked on with wide-eyed 
wonder as Jack opened the cases and explained the 
use and meaning of every article. Jack had certainly 
not saved his money. Madam looked a little askance 
at some lovely tapestry that Jack had just informed her 
he had got dirt-cheap ; she wondered what Mr. Poyn- 
ter thought of all the cheques that Jack had drawn. 
Well, she had followed her husband’s advice, and had 
given the boy his head, and he had frisked gaily like 
an undisciplined colt in whatever pasture he had wished 
to disport himself, and now he meant to settle down as 
a country gentleman and farmer. It was no use to 
delude herself, or to dream visions that were as base- 
less and unreal as though they were built on sand. 
Jack would be Jack until the end of the chapter, and 
she must just make the best of him. Jack felt vaguely 
that his mother was disappointed in him ; she was very 
loving and unusually yielding, but every now and then 
she would look at him sadly. One day he went to his 
old friend and confidante. Trimmer. As a child Trim- 
mer had been the recipient of all his little woes and 
grievances, and he had never grown out of the habit 
of consulting her even in his mannish days. 


138 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


“You see, Trimmer, I cannot live up to mother’s 
standard,’’ he finished ; “that is the long and short of 
it. I have been round the world, and I have come 
back the same stupid Jack Compton.” 

There was a slight huskiness in Jack’s voice that 
made Trimmer take off her spectacles and regard him 
anxiously. 

“I would not say that, Mr. John, my dear,” she 
returned, seriously ; “calling yourself names does not 
mend matters. Any one with eyes can see how happy 
the Mistress is to have you back. Times out of num- 
ber she has said to me as I was brushing her hair for 
the night, ‘ If I could only know what my boy was 
doing. Trimmer, I should sleep more comfortably.’ 
She just pined for a sight of you, and that was the 
.truth.” 

‘ ‘ But all the same, my dear old nursey , she is disap- 
pointed in me. No, she does not tell me so,” as 
Trimmer shook her head at this, ‘ ‘ but she makes me 
feel it every hour of the day.” 

“Mr. John, you must not say such things,” re- 
turned Trimmer, soothingly. “We all know that the 
Mistress, bless her, is a little difficult at times. More 
than once, when she has been talking to me, I have 
turned round and told her that nothing short of an 
angel from heaven would satisfy her. As long as the 
old Master lived she just fretted herself about him. 
She wanted to put him on a pedestal and have people 
crowding round to do him honour. It seemed to hurt 
her cruelly that his notions did not suit hers, and that 
he only cared for country pleasures and a quiet life.” 

“Dear old Dad! Well, and I take after him, 
Trimmer.” 


TRANSFORMATION 


139 


Yes, Mr. John, you are just the moral of him, and 
the Mistress is bound to see it in the end. Very likely 
she had a sort of hope that seeing all those strange 
countries might have roused you a bit ; and of course 
you have learnt a good many things, have you not, my 
dear ?” looking at him with wistful affection ; but Jack 
only broke into one of his boyish laughs. 

‘ ‘ Oh, yes, I have added considerably to my educa- 
tion. I have learnt to eat with chop-sticks, and to 
drink a dozen cups of pale amber coloured tea in a day, 
without milk or sugar, but I could not manage the 
saki; and I have floored a Yankee, and caught a couple 
of thieving Chinamen by their pig-tails and knocked 
their heads together, and I have roared out, ‘ Rule 
Britannia, and Britons never — never shall be slaves’ 
round camp fires, and in ranches, and once at the foot 
of a Buddhist monastery in Thibet. In fact, Ben Bolt 
and I have distinguished ourselves,” and then Jack 
marched off, hunching up his shoulders, and making 
believe to whistle in a light-hearted way, while Trimmer 
shook her head again solemnly and took up her work. 

“The Mistress is making a mistake,” she said to 
herself, “and it is not for the first time either. It 
stands to reason that a fine young man like Mr. John 
should have his own notion in things. The old Master 
would not be managed, and Mr. John has a will of his 
own, too, and the Mistress is bound to find it out.” 

The situation was becoming a little strained, when 
the time came for the promised visit to town. Mrs. 
Compton, who had strong dramatic instincts, had acted 
on Jack’s playful hint, and was carefully planning a 
coup de tMd.tre. 

One day Felix received an invitation that filled him 


140 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


with astonishment. Mrs. Compton desired the pleasure 
of his company to dinner ; her son had returned from 
his travels, and would be very pleased to renew his 
acquaintance ; there would be only two other gentle- 
men. That graciously worded note perplexed and 
mystified Felix ; a cynical smile curled his lips as he 
remembered that scene in the Bakery eight or nine 
months before, and Madam’s curt remarks and general 
standoffishness. Should he stand on his dignity too, 
and refuse the invitation ? To be sure he had always 
liked the young Squire, and then there was Pen — poor 
little Pen with the wistful eyes and soft pathetic face. 
It would be cruel to disappoint her, and especially as 
he had some good news for her private ear. Mr. 
Burnaby had heard of a good opening for him — a 
hard-worked doctor in Kensington who needed help. 
Felix had already written full particulars to his mother. 

* ‘ Dr. Hetherington wants me to go to him at once ; he 
says Dr. Burnaby’s recommendation is a sufficient tes- 
timonial : and now keep this to yourself, little Mother : 
if Dr. Hetherington and I hit it off, there is a chance 
of a partnership in the future. Dear old Burnaby sent 
for me the other evening, and told me that he meant to 
help me to it. ‘ Hetherington has got a splendid prac- 
tice,’ so he told me, ‘ but his partner is just dead, and 
he is frightfully overworked.’ I am to see how it suits 
me, and work on a bit, and by and by Mr. Burnaby is 
to pull me through. Of course I shall be in his debt 
for years, but as I shall be obliged to have a house, 
you may as well manage it for me until Pen and I are 
married. ’ ’ 

Felix wondered vaguely how soon he would be able 
to keep a wife. Dr. Burnaby had told him more than 


TRANSFORMATION 


141 

once rather seriously that he ought to get married as 
soon as possible. “ People prefer a married doctor to 
a bachelor,” he had remarked ; but Felix had made no 
response to this. His lad’s love had cooled, and he 
was in no hurry to exchange his freedom for matrimony, 
and very likely in his secret thoughts he doubted 
whether Pen, with all her gentleness and sweetness, was 
quite the wife for a clever, rising doctor. 

Felix was in a curiously undecided mood as he stepped 
into the hansom that was to convey him to Westmin- 
ster. He had had a hard day’s work, and had been up 
the greater part of the night, and his nerves had been 
a little excited by the unexpected success of a difficult 
and trying operation. Dr. Hetherington had told him 
that he had covered himself with glory ; indeed, the 
older man had secretly marvelled at Felix’s coolness. 
“ He will be a second Burnaby if he goes on like this,” 
he said to himself. 

Felix’s outward coolness was no sign of insensibility 
or want of feeling. When the poor girl whose life he 
had saved looked up at him, he had given her an an- 
swering smile, so sweet and full of encouragement that 
it inspired her with more courage to endure her suf- 
ferings. 

The moment was almost perfect to Felix. A sense 
of power, a consciousness that he had found his work 
in life and was doing it well, seemed to lift him to a 
higher plane. It was then that the healing instinct of 
the true physician seemed to intensify and enrich the 
whole purpose of his life. ‘ ‘ I would not change with 
any one, ’ ’ he thought, as he rushed to his lodging for 
a hasty luncheon before starting on his afternoon work ; 
and at that very moment Miriam Earle, knitting cosily 


142 THE TWO MOTHERS 

in her beehive chair in the sunny porch, was saying to 
herself — 

“ It is Pen that he wants, poor lad, if he would only 
believe it. It is the young folk who ought to begin 
the world together, but I am too old for new places 
and new ways. I should hate to have a pack of stuck- 
up servant-maids buzzing round me and making fun of 
my homely ways behind my back ; I should be eaten 
up with worry and fidget. No, no ; my lad must leave 
me in the cottage that David built for me. If it comes 
to the worst I would give over the cake-making and 
have Peggy Black in to do the rough work. ’ ’ 

Felix held his head a little higher than usual as he 
entered Madam’s drawing-room. The May sunshine 
streamed in at the open window ; the room was full of 
the fragrance of jonquils and mignonette. Jack stood 
on the rug talking to Mr. Poynter and another clerk, 
and Mrs. Compton, in her rich mourning silk and jet, 
rose from her chair with a bright smile of welcome. 

“ I am so pleased to see you, Mr. Earle,” she said, 
graciously. “Jack, my dear, this is a very old ac- 
quaintance of yours ; Mr. Poynter and Mr. Keppel, 
this is an old friend of ours from Sandilands.” And 
then Jack came forward full of friendliness, and de- 
lighted to see his old playfellow again. 

Felix was soon at his ease, but he wondered and 
grew secretly uneasy at Pen’s non-appearance. He 
had just returned an absent reply to Mr. Poynter, when 
there was a slight rustle near him, and then a slight 
girlish figure in white stepped out of the little conserv- 
atory and came shyly towards him. Felix felt a little 
dizzy, and the blood mounted to his forehead. He 
had caught sight of white gleaming arms under the 


TRANSFORMATION 


143 


lace ruffles and a soft, rounded throat with a cluster of 
pale pink roses against it, a pretty little head with coils 
of fair hair bent gracefully like a flower on its stalk. 
When Mrs. Compton saw the glow in Felix’s eyes she 
felt that her coup de had not failed. 

Later on in the evening, as Felix and Pen sat to- 
gether in the dimly-lighted conservatory, he grew to 
understand his position more clearly. 

“ Pen darling,” he said, drawing her closer ; for Pen, 
with exquisite tact and maidenliness, had behaved to 
him with more than her usual shy reticence all the 
evening ; “I want you to tell me how you have man- 
aged to transform yourself so completely in these few 
months’ time into such a bewitching little woman. Do 
you know when you stepped out of the conservatory 
before dinner I thought you were a strange young lady, 
until you smiled and held out your hand.” 

“Am I so changed?” returned Pen, softly, but 
Felix’s tone made her heart beat more quickly. “I 
know that I have done my hair differently, and that 
Madam has given me some pretty dresses, and that I 
am learning all sorts of things. Don’t you see, Felix,” 
and here Pen began to blush beautifully, ‘ ‘ that I am 
trying to keep pace with you as much as I can ? Of 
course, you will always be cleverer than I, but I could 
not bear the thought that you might ever be ashamed 
of me.” 

‘ ‘ Ashamed of you ?’ ’ and then Pen crept closer to 
him, and hid her face on his shoulder. 

“ Oh, Felix, let me say it all out, it will be such a 
relief. Dear, I have been so unhappy. I think but 
for Madam’s kindness and sympathy I should have 
broken my heart long ago. Don’t you remember the 


144 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


week you spent at Sand Hands, and our walk to Sandy 
Point. I know I disappointed you that evening, but I 
was merely dumb with misery. I thought you had 
grown tired of me, that the old love was gone, and 
that you wanted to be free. When you looked at me 
there was a different expression in your eyes that 
chilled me, and you never seemed to care to have me 
near you. Oh, let me finish,” as Felix tried to stop 
her ; “it was not fancy. Ask your own heart, Felix, 
if it has always been true to me.” 

“I have never cared for any one else,” returned 
Felix, indignantly, and then his wrath suddenly evap- 
orated. Pen was right, fol> a time he had certainly 
cooled, and, yes, though he was ashamed to own it, 
he had grown a little weary of his sweetheart, 

“My darling,” he said, deprecatingly, “you must 
not be hard on me. I have had a hard fight, and if I 
have not always been true to my old sweetheart, at 
least I can assure you that I have never wanted to 
make love to any other woman. 

‘ ‘ Pen, ’ ’ very tenderly, ‘ ‘ let bygones be bygones ; 
if we have misunderstood each other in the past, we 
are young enough to. make a fresh beginning. The 
old lad’s love for his boyish sweetheart died a natural 
death long ago, but e/ef since that afternoon at St. 
James’ Hall I have fallen in love with you over again. 
Pen, dear Pen, it is yoi ., not my mother, who must 
keep my house. I will talk to Mr. Burnaby and see 
what is to be done, and how soo i I can afford a wife,” 
but Pen resolutely refused to talk on this subject. 
Madam would want her for another year, and it was 
far too soon for Felix to think of saddling himself with 
fresh responsibilities. 


TRANSFORMATION 


145 


*‘We have talked long enough,” she said, firmly, 
“and Madam will be wanting her music ;” and then 
they went back to the drawing-room ; and Felix 
listened with wonder and delight as Pen sang one song 
after another very sweetly. Madam accompanied her. 
And this was the girl that he had vaguely felt would 
be no fit mate for him ; no wonder Felix felt ashamed 
and humiliated. Pen’s sweet face and her gentle air of 
refinement would grace any situation in life. He could 
not doubt his love for her now, and just then Pen 
turned round, and their eyes met, and Pen knew that 
she had won her lover over again. Mrs. Compton 
was very kind and indulgent during the remainder of 
their brief stay in town, and Felix and Pen found no 
more obstacles to their meeting. Felix came to dinner 
more than once, and one evening he accompanied them 
to the Opera, and he took Pen to the Abbey on Sunday 
afternoon, and they had a walk in the Park afterwards. 

There was no question of Pen going back to the 
Bakery, Madam could not spare her ; and then, as she 
explained to Felix, Pen must go on with her music and 
French and English literature. “I cannot have my 
work spoiled,” continued Madam, with her charming 
smile ; “my prot^g^e must do me credit. When you 
want Pen, Mr. Earle, you .shall have her and welcome, 
but I will part with her to no one else.” 

And so Pen went back to her pretty rooms at 
Kingsdene, and Miriam Earle lived on at the Bakery. 
Alas, it was the Bakexy no longer, for on Felix’s next 
visit to Sandilands he put down his foot very firmly. 
“Look here, little mother,” he said, resolutely, “if I 
let you stay on here you must promise me to give up 
the cake-making. I am going to settle a proper in- 
10 


146 


THE TWO MOTHERS 


come on you, and you are to get some strong, active 
girl to do the work,” and as Miriam Earle looked a 
little distressed at this. Pen hastened to console her. 

“Dear auntie,” she said, gently, “Felix is right. 
Do you think that, now he is making all that money, 
he would allow his mother to work. People would 
cry shame on him, and say he had no heart ; and 
you would not have him blamed ?’ ’ 

“Dear heart, no,” returned Miriam, alarmed by 
this view of the subject. ‘ ‘ But no one in their senses 
could cast up anything against my lad, for a better 
son never lived, as I was telling Madam just now.” 

“Then you will get Peggy Black to live with you,” 
continued Pen, striking while the iron was hot. ‘ ‘ Let 
me go and speak to her this very afternoon. Aunt Mir- 
iam. Peggy is such a clean, good-hearted girl, and 
she will be such a comfort. ’ ^ 

“ I don’t know about the comfort,” returned Miriam, 
doubtfully; .“ and how there will be work for two when 
the oven’s cold passes my comprehension ; but if you 
and Felix are set on it, I must just hold my tongue and 
take my ease,” and then Pen shot a triumphant glance 
at Felix. 

Before Felix left for town the next morning the glass 
canisters were removed from the window, and some 
fine geraniums from the conservatory at Kingsdene 
had replaced them ; but now and then, when Mrs. 
Gatlin was busy or pressed for time, Miriam would send 
up a batch of cakes to the Vicarage. 

“ It is just to keep my hand in,” she said, apologeti- 
cally, when Pen found her at it one morning. “ Some- 
times when I have got the fidgets seeing Peggy at her 
cleaning, and having nothing to do, I am obliged to 


i TRANSFORMATION 147 

finger the dough just for amusement. I have been 
baking some almond gingerbread for Felix. You can 
take some of it up to Madam if you like, with my 
duty,” and indeed, as Miriam grew richer, one of her 
greatest pleasures was to send little gifts of almond 
gingerbread to her neighbours. 







IV 

A WOMAN’S FAITH 


149 



I 


A STRANGER AT THE HEN AND CHICKENS 

There was a small inn on the Brentwood Road that 
was known by the name of the Hen and Chickens, 
where weary wayfarers, toiling up the long Brentwood 
Road on their way to Sandilands and Great Ditton, 
could obtain refreshment for man and beast. It was 
kept by a buxom widow. Joan Marple had been a 
Sandilands woman, she was cousin once removed to 
Bessie Martin, and there was a strong friendship be- 
tween them. Joan always spoke of herself and Bessie 
as two lone widow women, but she was careful not to 
state this fact in Bessie’s hearing. “They do tell that 
most of us do have a bee in our bonnet, ’ ’ she would say 
to one of her cronies, “but, dear heart, Bessie’s craze 
about poor Will beats everything. Five years last 
Michaelmas since she saw the last of him. Don’t I 
remember the very day, for it was when my poor Peter 
took his turn for the worst, and a fortnight later I 
buried him.’’ 

The Hen and Chickens was a very unpretentious 
place ; it had originally consisted of two cottages, but 
Peter Marple had thrown them into one. The thatched 
roof and small windows smothered in creepers gave it a 
picturesque appearance, and in winter, when the lamp- 
light shone through the closely-drawn red curtains, no 
passer-by could resist stepping into the snug bar for a 


152 


A WOMAN’S FAITH 


draught of the excellent ale, or some mulled elder wine, 
brewed by Joan herself. 

The surroundings of the Hen and Chickens were 
very pleasant. There was a small green where Joan’s 
geese and poultry were generally to be seen, and a 
horse-trough, worn with age, placed invitingly under 
the shade of two fine elms. There was no other cottage 
in sight, but Joan never found her life lonely. She had 
two helpers — an Irish wench, Bridget by name, who 
was maid-of-all-work, and a red-headed ostler, Pete, 
who was Joan’s factotum and Jack-of-all- trades — ^these, 
with a half-blind collie, who rejoiced in the name of 
Methuselah, comprised the household of the Hen and 
Chickens. 

It had been a busy day, for since early morning there 
had been a constant stream of customers. The sale of 
some farm stock at Great Ditton, owing to the death 
of its owner, had kept both the Brentwood and Sandi- 
lands inns well filled. A wet evening had set in ; and 
Joan, who was tired and wanted to reckon up her 
profits, had just seated herself by her bright little fire 
over which a rasher or two of ham was spluttering 
and hissing, while some new-laid eggs on the round 
table were pleasantly suggestive of further cooking, 
when the sound of a slow, dragging footstep on the 
threshold made her look up with a slight frown, while 
Methuselah, roused from a refreshing nap, growled 
aggressively. 

The stranger who had entered the Hen and Chick- 
ens had a forlorn and unprepossessing aspect in Joan’s 
eyes ; he looked like a foreigner, and Joan Marple ab- 
horred foreigners, whom she classed under the name of 
mounseers or mountebanks ; he wore a heavy cloak 


AT THE HEN AND CHICKENS 


153 


over one shoulder, and had an oddly peaked cap drawn 
over his forehead, “ for all the world like Guy Fawkes, 
or an escaped convict,” as she observed afterwards, 
while an untrimmed beard and some ragged moustach- 
ios gave him a fierce air. 

“You are too late for the Hen and Chickens, mas- 
ter,” observed Joan, curtly, for she made her own rules 
and regulations. “ Pete is just going to shut up, so you 
had better make tracks for the Fox and Hounds at 
Sandilands, it is not much over a mile, and the road 
is straight.” But the stranger shook his head at this. 

“My strength is gone,” he said in a tired voice, 
“and I could not manage a hundred yards. It is 
pouring cats and dogs, too. Look here, mistress,” 
holding up the wet folds of his cloak, “for pity’s sake 
let me have a little rest and food ’ and here he looked 
hungrily at the frizzling ham. ‘ ‘ I am no beggar, 
but only a miserable God-forsaken wretch, and I can 
pay you.” And here he held out a thin hand with 
some loose silver in it. 

Joan Marple hesitated. She was a kind-hearted 
creature, and the veriest tramp could get round her if 
he only whined long enough ; the man looked down 
on his luck, there was no doubt about that, and the 
rain was beating against the windows. It was a good 
mile to the Fox and Hounds, and very likely they 
would have shut up, and then she caught sight of a 
pinned-up coat sleeve under the disguising cloak, and 
she grew still more pitiful ; then Methuselah, who had 
left off growling, was snuffing round the stranger in 
rather a friendly fashion, and Methuselah could be 
trusted, for he hated tramps, and considered them as 
his natural enemies. 


154 


A WOMAN’S FAITH 


“ Well, sit you down, and I will get you some sup- 
per, ’’returned Joan, crossly, for she was annoyed at her 
own soft-heartedness. “ I was just going to have a bite 
and a sup myself, for I have been on my feet most of the 
day,” and then she unclasped the low door and told 
him ungraciously to leave his dripping cloak and cap 
for Bridget to dry at the kitchen fire. 

‘‘I am very much beholden to you, ma’am,” he 
returned, with a gentleness that contrasted oddly with 
his wild looks. ‘ ‘ I have been ill, and I have not the 
strength of a child. If you had turned me out, I 
should never have reached Sandilands,” and then he 
shivered and held out his hand to the pleasant blaze. 

Joan’s comely face was full of gloom as she bade 
Bridget spread a cloth on the little round table and 
draw a jug of ale, while she broke the eggs and broiled 
some more ham. Her heart sunk as she thought of 
the little room under the roof, which was always kept 
ready for a passing guest, with its lavender-scented 
sheets, and the patch-work quilt that she had made 
with her own hands. Honest English yeomen had 
slept in that room, which was far too clean and spot- 
less for the likes of a bearded Mounseer ; and then she 
met a pathetic glance from a pair of haggard blue eyes. 
“Do not turn me away,” they seem to say, “to die 
like a starving dog in a ditch’ ’ ; and then the sight of 
that empty sleeve filled her again with pity. 

Joan said no more until she had finished her prepara- 
tions. When the ham and eggs were done to a turn, 
she bade the man draw up to the table : a mighty loaf, 
and a noble wedge of cheese, and a brown earthenware 
jug full of foaming ale, filled up the intermediate space. 

Joan’s dour looks grew more benign as she saw how 


AT THE HEN AND CHICKENS 155 

thoroughly the wholesome viands were appreciated. 
Bridget grinned sympathetically as she replenished the 
earthenware jug. ‘ ‘ Shure’s there a pool on the kitchen 
■floor from the drippings of the gentleman’s coat,” she 
said in an aside to her mistress. ‘ ‘ Will I be getting 
the bed ready in the attic?” And then Joan Marple 
nodded. 

“You may light your pipe,” she said presently, 
when the table had been cleared. ‘ ‘ while I jot down 
some things in my day-book. ’ ’ And then the stranger, 
with a grateful look, took a smoke-dried meerschaum 
from his pocket and began filling the bowl with strong, 
fragrant tobacco. Joan watched him curiously. 

“You are uncommonly handy,” she said, approv- 
ingly. ‘ ‘ Most people would find it awkward to make 
one hand serve the purpose of two. If I may make 
bold — have you been a soldier ?’ ’ But the man shook 
his head. 

“No,” he said, speaking in the low, subdued voice 
that seemed natural to him. ‘ ‘ I had my arm crushed 
in some machinery at the Cape, and they were forced 
to amputate it. It was just my ill-luck. ’ ’ And then 
he went on dreamily as he laid down his pipe on his 
knee. ‘ ‘ There was a tale my mother used to read to 
me when I was a kid. How often I have recalled it. 
Murad the Unlucky, that was the beggar’s name, and 
he had a plaguy hard time of it too, but, as far as 
that goes. I’m his mate, for I have had ill-luck enough 
to swamp two men,” and then he turned his back and 
looked gloomily into the fire ; but Joan Marple saw him 
once draw his hand before his eyes. 

There was silence in the snug bar-parlour for a while. 
Methuselah curled himself up at the stranger’s feet and 


156 


A WOMAN’S FAITH 


went to sleep again, and the tired traveller drew slow 
whiffs of his pipe, and gazed into the red cavernous 
depths of the fire as though he saw strange things 
there ; then Joan, who had finished her calculations, 
nibbled the end of her pen reflectively, and looked 
at her guest. 

‘ ‘ I suppose you were never in these parts before, 
master?” she asked, for Joan was as inquisitive as the 
rest of Eve’s daughters. 

A faint colour rose to the stranger’s cadaverous face. 
“ I have not been for a sight of years,” he said, slowly, 

‘ ‘ but I used to know it when I was a youngster. I 
was born in London town, down Poplar way, but some 
of our folk settled in Surrey.” 

. “I thought maybe that you were a furrinner,” re- 
turned Joan, but her tone was civil and even friendly ; 
but the man shook his head. 

“No, mistress, I am English to the back-bone, in 
spite of the outlandish cut of my cloak. There was a 
Spaniard on board, and he died of consumption on the 
way home, and as he had no one belonging to him, 
they put up his clothes for auction, and that was how 
I got the cloak and cap ; but my father was English — 
a regular British tar — and my mother was born and 
bred in London, but I have been so long in outiandish 
parts that I have most forgot my own tongue. Now, 
mistress, if there is a bed handy, I’ d be thankful to 
turn in and have a snooze, for I have been on the 
tramp since daybreak.” And then Joan lighted a 
candle, and conducted him herself to the attic under 
the roof. 

A wet night was succeeded by a fine sunshiny morn- 
ing, and as the strange guest at the Hen and Chickens 


AT THE HEN AND CHICKENS 


157 


sat at his solitary breakfast in the bar-parlour, a pleasant 
rustic scene met his eyes. 

Joan in her white sun-bonnet was feeding her feath- 
ered family. The little triangular green was crowded 
by snow-white geese, and hens and ducks of every 
shade and variety, attended by the lords of the harem ; 
fussy litde black bantams pecked the grain fearlessly at 
her feet, while the mossy old horse-trough was lined 
with pigeons ; a cart-horse was patiently waiting for an 
opportunity to take a drink of the cold, clear water, 
and a sow and her brood of pigs had joined the as- 
sembly. Pete’s red head shone in the sunlight, and a 
tall young woman in a grey hood walking briskly to- 
wards the inn, with a covered basket on her arm, stood 
quietly under the elm trees to enjoy the scene. 

Joan did not see her until her apron was empty of 
grain, then she nodded to her with a bright smile. 

‘ ‘ Ah, you are there, Bessie, my woman. I suppose 
you have come for some more eggs ; there’s a score or 
two at your service. Is it for the Vicarage, or Mrs. 
Dunlop, or for Madam up at the big House, and how 
many may you be wanting ?’ ’ 

*‘Well a dozen would serve me, Joan,” returned 
Bessie Martin, in her soft, slow drawl, and at the sound 
the stranger in the bar-parlour started to his feet as 
though he had been shot. ‘ ‘ It was Mrs. Catlin who 
wants them, but I am bound that another half-dozen 
would come handy. She has got the Professor. He 
arrived unexpectedly last night, and she sent me a 
message by Davie to say that their hens would not lay. 
If you will put them up for me, Joan, I will just step 
back as quickly as possible, for Ben is a bit dwiny to- 
day, and I have kept him at home. Miss Merrick is 


A WOMAN’S FAITH 


158 

looking after him till I get back. She is ever ready to 
do a kindness for a body.” 

“It was a good thing for you, Bessie, when Miss 
Merrick came to Fir Cottage,” returned Joan, confi- 
dentially, ‘ ‘ for she has been company for you these fif- 
teen months, and prevented you from being so lone- 
some. Don’t you recollect, my lass, that it was me 
who first put it into your head to let the parlour and 
the bedroom over it, and how you would not listen to 
me at first, because you said a lodger would be fussy, 
and give you so much work. ’ ’ 

“Ay, Joan; but we all make mistakes sometimes, 
and I never set myself up to be cleverer than my neigh- 
bours, but it was a blessed day for me and the children 
when Miss Merrick came under our roof ; to see us sit- 
ting working under the porch, when Davie and Ben 
have gone to bed, you would think we were sisters, and 
the grand things she tells us, too, they make one feel 
fairly uplifted ; but then I must not be gossiping like 
an old wife who has nothing to do but doze in her 
chimney corner. I have Miss Merrick’s dinner to 
cook, and the ironing besides, for as I used to say to 
Will, every day has its own work. ’ ’ 

The listener in the bar broke into a low moan, as 
though some sudden pain had seized him, and as the 
two women entered the inn-door, he slipped out at the 
back of the bar and stole up to his room. 

Joan looked around her in some perplexity. “ Well, 
whatever has taken the man, ’ ’ she said to herself, then 
aloud — “We had an odd sort of body here last night 
— a wayfaring man — who had lost his arm and looked 
as though he were just off a bed of sickness, and he 
begged so hard for shelter and supper, that I had not 


AT THE HEN AND CHICKENS 


159 


the heart to turn him out, but I am bound to say he 
was no tramp, in spite of his queer outlandish ways. 

“Well, sit down, Bessie, while I fetch the eggs; 
they are in the out-house and Joan bustled off, while 
Bessie went to the open door and watched the old cart- 
horse now drinking 'his fill, while two fantail pigeons 
sat on the edge of the horse-trough and looked on. 

How quiet and still it all was ; the grass still glittered 
with dew-drops, and in the hollows of the road there 
were little pools of rain-water ; there was a faint sough- 
ing in the tree-tops, and some sparrows and martins 
cheeped and twittered in and out the thatch. 

“It is a grand world, ’ ’ thought Bessie, who in her 
slow way was an idealist, “ if it were not for the wrecks, 
and the drowned men ^ and then in a clear musical 
voice she sung a verse of her favourite hymn that they 
had had last Sunday : — 

*‘Safe home, safe home in port. 

Rent cordage, shattered deck, 

Tom sail, provision short. 

And only not a wreck : 

But oh ! the joy upon the shore 
To tell our voyage — perils o’er.” 

‘ ‘ There are your eggs, Bessie, my lass, and I have 
put up a brown twist that Bridget has just baked for 
Ben.“ And Joan gave the well-packed basket to her 
cousin. 

Bessie’s grey eyes lit up with pleasure as she took it. 

“Thank you kindly, Joan ; the little lad will be fine 
and pleased ’ and then she walked away briskly, 
swinging the basket- and humming to herself, and Joan 
watched her under her shading hand until she was out 
of sight. 


i6o 


A WOMAN’S FAITH 


Another pair of eyes was watching her, too, and as 
soon as the bend of the road hid her, the stranger came 
down. He wore his cloak, and the odd peaked-cap 
was drawn over his forehead as though to disguise as 
far as possible his ghastly paleness. 

‘‘I must be going on my way now, mistress,” he 
said, hastily, “ and must pay my chores, if you will be 
good enough to reckon up what I owe you ’ and then 
he bent down to pat Methuselah, who had come out to 
lie in the sunshine. “ Was that your sister, mistress — 
the young woman in the grey hood who has just gone 
down the road ?’ ’ 

“Nay, my good man,” returned Joan, smiling at the 
question, for strangers always thought she and Bessie 
were sisters. ‘ ‘ I never had a sister ; only eight 
brothers ; but Bessie Martin is my cousin once re- 
moved. ’ ’ 

The stranger nodded. “ I suppose her husband is 
a Sandilands man,” he said, flicking off the dust from 
his broken boot. 

“No,” returned Joan, who dearly loved to gossip 
about her neighbours. ‘ ‘ Will was not bom and bred 
in these parts, though he came down to do his court- 
ing, poor fellow. ’ ’ 

“Why, mistress,” returned the man in a gruff voice, 

‘ ‘ you speak solemn-like, as though he were dead. ’ * 

“And so he is dead,” replied Joan, with sudden 
energy. “ He has been dead these six or seven years ; 
if only that soft, silly woman would bring herself to be- 
lieve it. His ship struck against a coral reef, and not 
a soul survived ; but Bessie has the craze that he is 
still alive, and refuses to wear black or own herself a 
widow ; but there, I never argue with her, for she only 


AT THE HEN AND CHICKENS i6i 

cries, and says people are trying to break her heart. 
There’s Jem Fenton,” continued Joan, garrulously, 
‘ ‘ down at Great Ditton, who farms the land near the 
Folly ; he would be glad and thankful to marry her 
any day, and father her boys ; but Bessie won’t listen 
to any one. It is clearly flying in the face of Provi- 
dence, and so I often tell her, but she only turns it 
back on me by asking how a woman was to have two 
husbands. Well, are you going, master ? Good-day, 
and better luck to you and then Joan Marple went 
back into the inn. 

Late that afternoon David and Ben were playing in 
the fir woods at the back of their mother’s cottage. 

The firs climbed steeply up the hill, and as far as eye 
could see, the green, solemn glades seemed to stretch 
indefinitely on either hand, with pleasant breaks and 
spaces of sunlight. 

Just behind the cottage there was a clearing which 
Bessie used as her drying-ground, and where clothes- 
lines, dust-heaps, and cinder-mounds, all spoke of do- 
mestic utility. This was the favourite hunting-ground 
of the great black sow, and there she and her brood of 
curly-tailed pigs loved to disport themselves, in friendly 
company with the little brown hen and her chickens, 
and there Bessie’s sandy cat would sit on the wall, 
gingerly washing her face, and looking down at them. 

The boys always used the clearing as their play- 
ground. There were all sorts of handy articles ready 
to their hand — broken bricks and sardine boxes, empty 
biscuit tins and pickle bottles, a cracked plate or two, 
and a little black saucepan without handle or lid. 
Once David had found a kettle with a hole through it, 
and had carried it off proudly. He was a strangely 


i 62 


A WOMAN’S FAITH 


imaginative boy, and the games he taught Ben were 
generally an adaptation of their Sunday lesson. 

Little Mrs. Dunlop, who took the boys’ class, always 
regarded David as her model pupil. ‘ ‘ He was so at- 
tentive, and seemed to drink in every word she would 
say.” But she little dreamt that as David sat, with 
his big blue eyes fixed on her face, that he really was 
ransacking his boyish brains to think how he and Ben 
could dramatize fitly the story of Joseph in the pit, 
with the ten brethren and the Ishmaelites and their 
camels all demanding to be represented. 

On the present occasion there was less difficulty. 
Perhaps that was why it was so often repeated. ‘ ‘ Let’ s 
play at Cain and Abel, Benjy,” David would say ; 
and for some time the joy of building an altar of fir- 
cones, and seeking for acorns for Cain’s offering, recon- 
ciled Ben. 

On the afternoon in question, Ben had turned restive. 
He was a littie out of sorts, ‘ ‘ dwiny, ’ ’ as his mother 
expressed it, and nothing suited him. 

The fir-cones were slippery from last night’s rain, 
and refused to be piled properly, and one after another 
rolled down, to be pounced on by the sandy cat, which 
evidently thought this was intended for her amuse- 
ment ; when David suggested making a brick altar 
and filling up the interstices with biscuit tins, Ben only 
broke into a roar. 

“I hate Cain, and I won’t never be Abel again,” 
he burst out, with a stamp of his foot ; and then, 
frightened at his own contumacy and rebellion, for 
until now David’s will had been law, he roared afresh, 
and set off running up the slippery hill path as fast as 
his legs would carry him. 


AT THE HEN AND CHICKENS 163 

There retribution overtook him — an avenging 
Nemesis, in the fearful guise of a mysterious wild 
man, stood like a lion in his path, freezing Benjy’s 
soul with horror, and curdling the blood in his veins, 
so that he stood rooted to the spot, with his mouth 
wide open, unable to utter a sound. 

The apparition was certainly a little startling. In 
the shadowy light the tall, cloaked figure, with the 
odd peaked cap disguising the features, looked almost 
gigantic in Ben’s childish eyes. His terrified brain, 
filled with David’s gruesome stories, conjured up sud- 
den recollections, all equally awe-inspiring and ghastly 
— Robinson Crusoe, the giant Fee-Fo-Fum, who loved 
to sup off little children ; Giant Despair, and the wild 
man of the woods who lives with the gorillas — until 
Ben’s round face was white with fear ; and he gasped 
out: “Oh, kind man! Oh, please don’t kill me. 
I’m only Benjy and then broke into piteous sobs. 

‘ ‘ Why, whatever ails the youngster ?’ ’ exclaimed a 
rough but decidedly English voice. ‘ ‘ What are you 
yelling for, as though a pack of wolves were at your 
heels ? No one is going to hurt you. ’ ’ And then a 
pair of eyes, almost as blue as Benjy’s, looked kindly 
in the little lad’s face. 


II 


THE WILD MAN OF THE WOODS 

Little Ben Martin’s terror of the wild man of the 
woods abated after the first few moments. The stran- 
ger’s voice, though gruff, was decidedly friendly, and 
no child would have mistrusted those honest, melan- 
choly eyes. Benjy left off crying, and only gasped a 
little when a hand rested benignly on his curls. 

“There’s a brave little chap,” observed the wild 
man, approvingly ; * ‘ now tell me your name, and I 
will show you something pretty that I have been saving 
up for a good boy. ’ ’ 

“J am Benjamin Robert Martin,” replied Benjy, re- 
gaining his powers of speech with marvellous celerity, 
“and Davie’s name is David William Martin, and we 
live with mother and Miss Merrick in that cottage 
yonder,” and Ben pointed with his chubby hand to 
the bottom of the wooded hill, where the red roof of 
Fir Cottage shone in the afternoon light ; ‘ ‘ now please 
show me your pretty thing, ’ ’ but his delight was un- 
bounded when the stranger extracted from his pocket a 
tiny but beautifully carved model of a goat, the result 
of many an hour of patient and painstaking work. 

“Why, it is like the nanny what lives down at 
Crompton’s and always butts at the big dog. I am a 
good boy, mostly,” continued Ben, looking up into 
the wild man’s face with engaging frankness, “ though 
164 


THE WILD MAN OF THE WOODS 165 

I would not play Abel, but perhaps to-morrow I won’t 
mind so much ; so may I have it?” 

“Yes, you may have the billy-goat,” returned the 
man, gently ; “it was for you, little ’un, that I made 
it ; and there’s a kangaroo for David ; he is another 
good boy, I know.” 

“Oh, David’s always good,” returned Ben, care- 
lessly, “except when he fights the boys in the play- 
ground, and comes home with a black eye to mother, 
and then she always cries. Why is your sleeve pinned 
up to your coat, aren’t you got no arm inside it?” and 
Ben’s eyes grew round and pitiful. 

“No, sonny ; they were forced to cut it off because 
it hurt so ; I will tell you all about that by and by ; 
now give me a kiss for that pretty billy of yours, ’ ’ but 
Ben hung shyly back, and shook his head. 

“I don’t never kiss no one but mother and Miss 
Merrick, ’ ’ he said, shaking his curls over his eyes ; 
“please, I must go to mother now.” 

‘ ‘ And so you shall, sonny, but you must do some- 
thing for me ; I have more than one pretty thing in 
this pocket for good little lads,” now laying a little 
battered locket in his hand, black with age and ex- 
posure, but with a tiny curl of reddish-brown hair 
distinctly visible. ‘ ‘ I want you to put this in your 
mother’s hand, in her hand, Benjy, mind, and say to 
her, ‘ Will has sent you this. ’ ’ ’ Benjy nodded as he 
gripped the locket tightly ; he was hungry, and he 
knew it was near tea-time, and he was dying to show 
his nanny-goat to David. He sped down the hill as 
fast as his sturdy legs would carry him, passing David 
like a miniature whirlwind. David, who felt rather 
sulky and ill-used, took no notice as Benjy fled past 


i66 


A WOMAN’S FAITH 


him, overturning his altar of fir-cones and a whole 
oyster-shell full of acorns that he had carefully col- 
lected. Benjy had caught sight of his mother coming 
up the little lane to call them in to tea ; Bessie’s grey 
sunbonnet was tilted over her eyes, and she had a clean 
cotton apron tied over her neat black gown. “ What’s 
to do with you, my dearie?” she said, in a soothing 
voice, as Benjy rushed up to her excitedly. 

‘ ‘ Oh, mother !’ ’ he exclaimed, eager to make a clean 
breast to his dearest friend and confidante. ‘ ‘ I was a 
naughty boy, and would not play Cain and Abel for 
Davie, and the wild man frightened me so, for I 
thought he was Fee-Fo-Fum, and he had a horrid 
cloak and no arm, but he is a nice man too. He told 
me to give you this,” laying the blackened locket in 
her palm, and to say, ‘ ‘ ‘ Will has sent you this, ’ ’ ’ but, 
alas ! here poor Benjy had a second fright, for no sooner 
had Bessie’s eyes rested on the curl of reddish-brown 
hair than she uttered a cry so keen and piercing that it 
reached the little Sister in her parlour, while Benjy, 
scared by his mother’s white face, clung to her with 
all his might. 

But Bessie flung him from her so roughly that the 
child almost fell on his face. 

“Where? where?” she panted, and then caught 
him by the shoulder as though to shake the answer 
from him; “where, for God’s sake, where?” and 
poor Benjy, who felt as though all his little world was 
in chaos, and who had never been so roughly handled 
in all his happy childish life, had only presence of mind 
to point up the hill before he broke into another storm 
of sobs. 

Up there ! Yes, there was certainly something dark 


THE WILD MAN OF THE WOODS 167 

moving cautiously between the tree-trunks. Then 
Bessie’s mood changed, and her sudden frenzy seemed 
to calm down, and the next moment her clear shrill 
voice sounded through the wood, “ Will, Will, what’s 
keeping you, my lad ?” and then she took off her sun- 
bonnet and waved it a little wildly, for such a trembling 
had seized her limbs that she was unable to move. ‘ ‘ I 
am coming, my lass ; bide a moment, Bessie,” was 
shouted back, and then her dazed eyes saw a tall 
cloaked figure coming swiftly down the woodland path, 
and the next moment it seemed to Benjy as though his 
mother was suddenly caught and entangled and lost in 
the dreadful flapping cloak. 

But Bessie, with her cheek against the empty sleeve, 
was only sobbing out in an ecstasy, over and over 
again, ‘ ‘ Ay, my lad, my lad ; I knew you would 
come back to me, my own dear Will,” and so on, 
the soft drawling voice only broken upon by a man’s 
tearless sobs. 

‘ ‘ Dear heart, true heart, ’ ’ was all Will could find to 
say, for the joy of seeing that comely brown head rest- 
ing against his shoulder seemed to deprive him of speech, 
but Bessie, who had lived for this moment, and who had 
rehearsed this scene at least five hundred times, was the 
first to recover herself. 

So she wiped away the tears that almost blinded her, 
and began, womanlike, to notice the changes in her 
beloved. And first she kindly touched the unkempt 
beard that was so thickly threaded with grey, and noted 
the thin sunken cheeks, and the haggard weary eyes, 
and as she remembered the handsome sailor who had 
bidden her goodbye that summer’s morning, a sudden 
lump in her throat seemed to choke her, next she 


A WOMAN’S FAITH 


1 68 

stooped down and kissed the empty sleeve pitifully, 
and then both arms went round his neck, “ Oh, what 
have they done to you, my lad ?’ ’ she said in her tender 
slow voice. Will could have wept like a child when he 
heard it. 

“ It is only a useless old hulk you have got, Bessie,’’ 
he said, hoarsely ; ‘ ‘ when you took me for better or 
worse you little thought how it would be,” but here 
Bessie laid a strong work-worn hand upon his lips. 

‘ ‘ Nay, Will, you shall not say that ; have not the 
little lads and me prayed for you night and morning ? 
‘ Only let me see my Will’s face again,’ that is what I 
would say night after night, and it fairly drove me crazy 
when they would have it you were dead. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Dear heart, but I was near death more than 
once ; I never thought to see your bonnie face again,” 
then Bessie shivered, but the next moment she smiled 
in his face. 

“That is over and gone. Will, now come home, 
my lad, for you look wearied to death,” and she would 
have led him down the hill, but Will resisted and stood 
still. 

“ I must speak to my boy first; where is David, wife? 
the little sonny and I have already made friends 
then Bessie looked across the wood in some perplexity, 
the boys’ playground was empty, and only the sandy 
cat was still playing with the fir-cones, while the black 
sow, with grunts of satisfaction, was wallowing amongst 
the acorns, 

“David,” called out Bessie loudly, and then her 
keen grey eyes saw the little lad hiding behind the poul- 
try coop. Benjy had discovered him first, — ^both the 
boys were crying. 


THE WILD MAN OF THE WOODS 169 

“That ain’t father, that ugly black man,” David had 
said, and Benjy’s answer had not been consoling. 

‘ ‘ I don’ t know nothing about that, ’ ’ gasped Benjy ; 
* * only mother just screeched and flew to him ; he is a 
wild man, Davie, but he is not Fee-Fo-Fum, and he 
gave me this nanny-goat; but we don’t want him to 
come and live with us, do we ?’ ’ 

“Be quiet, Benjy,” and David stamped his foot. 
The bare idea made the boy furious, how could this 
grim bearded foreigner be his handsome sailor father 
whose portrait he had so often kissed when he wished 
it good-night ? Benjy could not remember him of course, 
but David had a vivid recollection of a brown smooth 
face that he had loved to stroke, and smiling eyes that 
had looked into his. ‘ ‘ That ain’ t father, ’ ’ he muttered, 
and, out of sheer vexation and perplexity, he mingled 
his tears with Benjy’s. 

“ David, come here ; I want you, dearie,” exclaimed 
Bessie, anxiously, but David advanced reluctantly, and 
his eyes were fixed on the ground. He looked sullen 
and ill at ease. 

“Won’t you speak to your daddy, David?” pleaded 
Bessie, piteously. ‘ ‘ Will, the little lads are a bit scared 
at you, but you must not take it unkindly. Davie was 
only three when you saw him last, but he is your very 
image,” and then she looked proudly at her boy, and 
held out her hand coaxingly to Benjy, and the next 
moment Benjy was clinging to her apron and hiding his 
face in her gown, but David held aloof. ‘ ‘ That ain’ t 
my dad,” he repeated, rebelliously. 

“You must give them time, wife,” observed Will, 
a little sadly, “I doubt that I am only a scarecrow 
to frighten children, let me sit down somewhere and 


170 A WOMAN’S FAITH 

rest myself a bit, and David will take to me later 
on.” 

Clare Merrick saw the little group passing her win- 
dow. Bessie’s grey hood had fallen off, she was hold- 
ing Will’s hand. Benjy was still clinging to her skirt, 
Davie, with downcast eyes and heaving breast, was 
following them. 

‘ ‘ Will has come home, ’ ’ that was all Bessie said, as 
the little Sister hurried out with her congratulations. 

‘ ‘ What did I tell you. Miss Merrick ? was I not right 
when I said the same world held my lad and me ? God 
be praised for all his mercies, ’ ’ and then Bessie led Will 
into the pleasant homely sitting-room with its window 
opening on to the honeysuckle verandah, and that even- 
ing the little Sister saw her no more. David refused to 
make friends with his father that night, and all Bessie’s 
coaxing speeches could not draw him from his corner, 
where he sat doubled up on his little stool, and pretend- 
ing to read Robinson Crusoe. Will gave her a hint 
presently to let him alone. Now and then he cast long- 
ing glances on the boy. David’s sturdy limbs and 
clear bright eyes reminded him of his own childhood. 
Will was hungry for his boy’s caresses, but he was 
obliged to content himself with Benjy. Benjy was per- 
fectly friendly, and had climbed up on his knee in the 
most confiding way. ‘ ‘ David thinks you are too ugly 
and black to be our dad,” he observed, confidentially, 
but David only glowered at his little brother and hunched 
his shoulders over his book. 

David had never felt so unhappy, so out in the cold 
before. He was an imaginative and affectionate boy, 
and constant companionship with grown-up people had 
made him precocious. From babyhood he had ideal- 


THE WILD MAN OF THE WOODS 171 

ized the memory of his father ; dad was his hero, he 
was not only noble and beautiful, but he was the 
bravest and best man in the world. To have his ideals 
so ruthlessly destroyed was keen suffering to David, 
and indeed poor Will was a somewhat unsightly object 
that evening in childish eyes. 

David slunk off to bed presently — when he could 
bear his isolation and wretchedness no longer ; it was 
far more comfortable sobbing out his griefs under the 
bedclothes than making believe to read Robinson 
Crusoe — and then sleep, that comforter of unhappy 
childhood, laid his drowsy fingers on David’s hot fore- 
head, and lulled him to forgetfulness. 

David slept late the next morning, the sandy cat 
woke him by jumping on his chest, and as he rubbed 
his eyes, with a sleepy exclamation, he was aware of a 
strange man standing by the window. 

David was wide enough awake now, and he regarded 
the stranger distrustfully ; what business had brought 
him there, he had never seen him before, and yet there 
was something familiar in his appearance. To be sure, 
his blue coat and brass buttons proved him to be a 
sailor. Why, dad had a coat like that ; mother had it 
locked up in the big chest ; it was rather old and white 
about the seams, but he and Benjy always admired it 
so, though there was a nasty big stain like tar on one 
shoulder, and here David started up in bed as his eyes 
caught sight of a familiar patch. At the movement 
behind him the stranger turned round, and David saw 
a thin beardless face with sunken cheeks and curly 
hair, mixed plentifully with grey, and a pair of tired 
kind eyes that seemed to look straight into his heart. 

‘ ‘ Do you know your dad better this morning, 


172 


A WOMAN’S FAITH 


sonny?” and then, as David, sorely repentant and 
ashamed, began to cry. Will sat down on the side of 
the bed and drew the boy’ s head to his shoulder. 

‘ ‘ I have got rid of the beard, ’ ’ observed Will, 
stroking David’s hair. “I don’t look so much like 
a wild man of the woods, do I, Davie? The coat’s a 
size too big for me, but mother made me put it on, ’ ’ 
and then Bessie, peeping through the open doorway, 
saw David nestle affectionately to his father. 

“You are more like my dad this morning,” he 
whispered, “though you ain’t so handsome as dad 
was,” and then Bessie slipped away, for the joy that 
overflowed her simple heart vented itself in loving 
ministries for the husband who had come back to her 
from the dead. The news spread like wildfire through 
Sandilands that Will Martin had come home, and all 
day long sympathising and curious neighbours climbed 
up the steep hill path to Fir Cottage, just to shake 
Will’s hand and wish Bessie joy. 

One of the last arrivals was the Vicar, and to him 
Will told his strange story. As far as he knew, there 
was no other survivor of the crew of the ill-fated Are- 
thusa, and his own escape had been little short of a 
miracle. When the vessel went down, he had kept 
afloat for a while, and had then seized a plank that was 
drifting past him, and by and by, as daylight dawned, 
he managed to scramble on to a boat that had its 
keel uppermost, a strong current seemed carrying him 
along, and before night he found himself washed ashore 
on what looked like a bare reef. He was battered, 
bruised, and starving, and he imagined that he fainted, 
for when he came to himself he was not in the same 
place, but was lying bound hand and foot under a 


THE WILD MAN OF THE WOODS 173 

clump of bushes, and some dusky figures were sitting 
in a semicircle round a fire. 

He had fallen into the hands of savages, but happily, 
as he found out later, they were not cannibals, but he 
knew little of what passed for some time. 

Probably his head had received some hurt, for a 
succession of ghastly dreams and fancies haunted him, 
now and then he must have had lucid intervals, for 
once he found his limbs were free, and that he was 
lying on a bed of leaves, and another time he distinctly 
remembered drinking a long draught of cocoanut milk 
from a calabash, afterwards he found out that the chief’s 
wife had tended him. 

When he recovered he set himself to make friends 
of his captors, and being handy like most sailors, he 
made all sorts of toys and little things to please the 
women and children. 

But his greatest feat was bandaging the arm of a 
young savage who had received a terrible flesh wound 
from the stroke of an axe. But for Will’s timely help 
he would have bled to death. After this he seemed to 
have acquired the reputation of a medicine man, and 
was very well treated in consequence. He had a little 
hut constructed for him, and had plenty of food and 
cocoanut milk, but he still found himself a close pris- 
oner. When the men went out on their fishing expe- 
ditions, the women kept watch over him, and the least 
attempt to escape the island always brought the whole 
encampment at his heels, with threatening gestures and 
loud clamouring that soon drove him back to his hut. 

Will had no means of learning his true situation, and 
only a rough' reckoning by cutting notches in the trees 
gave him any idea of time, but his opinion was that he 


174 


A WOMAN’S FAITH 


must have been on that island more than five years be- 
fore he managed to effect his escape. His clothes had 
long been worn out, and he looked almost as wild as 
the savages among whom he lived, when a boatful of 
sailors from some vessel cruising near rowed into a 
sheltered creek at the island. Happily the men of the 
tribe had gone off on one of their fishing expeditions, 
and the women and children had hidden themselves 
among the trees at the sight of the white men, so no one 
saw Will creeping down on his hands and knees among 
the prickly bushes. 

“ Hulloa, here comes our man Friday,” exclaimed a 
bright faced young middy, and, like Friday, poor Will 
dropped abjectly on his knees. 

“For God’s sake, gentlemen, take me with you,” 
he implored almost hysterically ; “I am an English 
sailor, and these savages have kept me prisoner all 
these years; my name is Will Martin.” “We got 
him in the boat in a jiffey,” related one of the sailors 
afterwards ; ‘ ‘ my eyes, how Gurney stared when the 
man Friday began talking good English. But we were 
only just in time, for two canoes came round the 
creek, and in another moment they would have let 
their arrows fly. As it was they followed us pretty 
closely. ’ ’ 

It was in this way that Will reached the Cape. But 
his misfortunes were not over ; a few days after he 
landed the accident occurred that resulted in weeks of 
helpless suffering, and eventually in the loss of his arm. 
For the second time he lay at death’s door, and when 
at last he left the hospital he was a broken man, penni- 
less, enfeebled, and almost hopeless, and if he had not 
fallen into the hands of good Samaritans, Bessie would 


THE WILD MAN OF THE WOODS 175 

never have had her husband back. Some Dutch 
settlers who lived up country took him with them in their 
waggon, and Will stayed with them until he had recov- 
ered his strength. 

His one idea was to reach England, and see with his 
own eyes if his wife was still faithful to his memory, but 
after all these years he feared to write. One day for- 
tune befriended him ; a rich young Englishman travel- 
ling for his own amusement crossed his path unexpect- 
edly, and, hearing his strange story, took him back 
with him to the Cape, and finally shipped him to 
England. 

‘ ‘ The moment he heard my wife was a Sandilands 
woman,” continued Will, “he turned round and asked 
me if my name were not Will Martin, and it was he 
who first gave me hope that my Bessie was still faithful 
to me.” 

“And the name of your benefactor?” asked the 
Vicar, quickly. 

“Well, sir, he did not tell me for a bit, but when he 
bid me goodbye on board, he said we should meet 
again soon, for he had finished his travels, and would 
be home very shortly, and then he said his name was 
Jack Compton, and that he lived at the big house at 
Sandilands. My word, how my heart jumped when 
he said that, for was it not Madam Compton who had 
given Bessie her wedding gown, though I had never 
set eyes on her son before.” 

“ I hope this was the end of your troubles, Martin,” 
observed the Vicar with kindly sympathy, as Will 
paused for a moment. 

“ No, sir ; I am sorry to say Murad the Unlucky was 
still to the fore ; dry your eyes, Bessie, my lass, for I 


A WOMAN’S FAITH 


176 

have nearly finished now. I reached London all right, 
but the bed they gave me for my night’s lodging must 
have been damp, but anyhow I had a bout of rheuma- 
tism that kept me in hospital for well-nigh five weeks. 

‘ ‘ As soon as I could pick up my strength I started 
for Sandilands, but somehow, when I reached Brent- 
wood, my nerve seemed gone, and I could not face the 
idea of walking up to Fir Cottage. Would you be- 
lieve it, I kept walking up and down in the Brentwood 
road until I was fairly ready to drop, and when the rain 
came I made up my mind to bide a night at the Hen 
and Chickens.” 

“Oh, Will, we must go and see Joan,” exclaimed 
Bessie, rapturously ; ‘ ‘ she is the best friend I have in 
Sandilands.” 

“True, but there is one duty for us to do first,” re- 
turned the Vicar with unusual solemnity, and then he 
lifted his hand meaningly as the church bell sounded 
across the valley. 

Bessie put on her grey hood without a word, and she 
and Will, with the boys following them, walked meekly 
behind the Vicar. As the little procession crossed the 
village green, people hurried out of their cottages and 
stood looking after them ; then first one and then another 
followed them through the lich-gate ; even a knot of 
workmen standing in the doorway of the Fox and 
Hounds looked sheepishly at each other and then 
emptied their pipes. 

Never had the Vicar had such a congregation on a 
weekday. Before the short service was over the church 
was full. 

Bessie’s heart heaved with pent-up sobs as she and 
Will knelt hand in hand, and there was not a dry eye 


THE WILD MAN OF THE WOODS 177 

in the church when the Vicar, with a break in his so- 
norous voice, returned thanks for the great mercies 
vouchsafed to two members of the congregation. 

But perhaps the crowning glory of the service to 
Bessie was when she heard Will’s voice, a little hoarse 
and quavering, joining in her favourite hymn, the very 
one she had sung to herself the previous day as she 
stood at the door of the Hen and Chickens : — 

“ The exile is at home ! 

O nights and days of tears, 

O longings not to roam, 

O sins and doubts and fears, 

What matters now grief’s darkest day, 

The King has wiped those tears away.’* 


12 



V 

THE ORDEAL OF HANNAH MARKHAM 


179 



I 


NANCE REED^S DAUGHTER 

When Hannah Reed married Stephen Markham 
that wild windy March morning all Sandilands rose up 
like one man and denounced the ill-assorted union. 

Perhaps the women were more scathing in their criti- 
cisms, and there were plenty of sharp speeches uttered 
at the bridegroom’s expense. “ What ails the woman 
that she must take up with a dour man like Steeve Mark- 
ham ?’ ’ old Elspeth Cameron was heard to mutter, and 
no word was more true in its description. Not even his 
best friend, if he possessed one, could have denied that 
Stephen Markham was a dour man. 

But if the women sharpened their tongues, there was 
a great deal of head-shaking, and not a few meaning 
looks in the bar of the Fox and Hounds ; when Nathan 
Wood, the blacksmith, put down his empty tankard and 
drew his hand across his lips with a slow wink at Reu- 
ben Stedman, it was at once understood by every one 
that Hannah had caught a Tartar. 

“ God help her, poor soul,” murmured Bessie Mar- 
tin, wringing the soapsuds from her arms as she stood 
at her wash-tub that morning. ‘ ‘ I fear she has done 
an ill job for herself this day. But there, when a woman 
plays the fool and takes the wrong mate for better and 
worse she must just bide the bitterment. ’ ’ But all that day 
Bessie’s soft heart felt sorely for Hannah. Perhaps the 

i8[ 


i 82 ordeal of HANNAH MARKHAM 


Sandilands folk were a little too hard on Stephen Mark- 
ham, for, with all his faults and strange complex per- 
sonality, he was not without his virtues. He was a 
steady, respectable man, sober and abstemious, and was 
never known to loiter either at the Fox and Hounds or 
the Hen and Chickens. He was a good son, too, and 
had worked for his widowed mother ever since he had 
been a lad of sixteen. 

The wonder was how he had contrived to win Han- 
nah’s affections. 

Hannah Reed was not a Sandilands woman. She 
was the blacksmith’s daughter at Brentwood, and was 
considered the finest girl for miles round. Even the 
Vicar, who had an aesthetic eye, and was no mean judge 
of female beauty, had given his opinion unhesitatingly 
that Hannah Reed was undeniably handsome. 

She was tall and a little massive in build, but her 
clear brown skin, bright hazel eyes, and dark hair cer- 
tainly laid claims to beauty. No girl in Sandilands, 
Brentwood or Great Ditton could compete with her in 
good looks, and when Hannah came into church in her 
grey alpaca, and with a hop garland round her hat, the 
Brentwood lassies looked anxiously at their sweethearts 
and pursed up their lips severely. 

Hannah had more lovers than she knew how to 
manage. On Sunday evenings the green before the 
Forge was black with them. It was odd and a little 
amusing to see how the lads glowered at each other, 
and then nudged each other’s elbows when Hannah 
turned her back on them, but when Stephen Markham 
first showed his face on the green, they were heard to 
mutter deep down in their throats that they wanted 
no black-faced Jeremiah to cut in and spoil their 


NANCE REED’S DAUGHTER 


183 


game. But Jem Slater finished more cheerily. “ Well, 
boys, it don’t so much matter after all, there is no 
fear that a girl like Hannah Reed would take up with 
a dour-looking chap like Steeve Markham.” But alas 
for poor Jem’s hopes, a few weeks later the banns of 
Stephen Markham and Hannah Reed were read in 
church. 

Stephen Markham lived in the last cottage at Audley 
End. He was wheelwright and carpenter, and his 
workshed and yard adjoined the house. Stephen was 
a capital workman and drove a brisk trade, and was 
considered in Sandilands a warm man. He had money 
in the Brentwood Bank, and the cottage, which was 
roomy and comfortable, as well as the wood-yard, be- 
longed to him. Quite recently he had added two 
rooms to the cottage, a parlour and bedroom over it, 
and Miriam Earle from the Bakery had lifted up her 
hands in amazement when she had been shown the 
comer cupboards and the handsome press and the oak 
box with the carved lid which Stephen had made for his 
young wife. There was no denying that, as far as the 
loaves and fishes were concerned, Hannah was doing a 
good thing for herself, and perhaps this view of the 
matter made the blacksmith and his wife give their 
consent ; for when a man has four growing lads to 
feed and clothe, besides three girls still in their teens, 
a well-to-do son-in-law with money in the Brentwood 
Bank was not to be despised. 

If Hannah fancies him, and we know no ill of him,” 
George Reed observed to his wife, “it is not for us to 
put down our foot. He is not a genial chap, certainly, 
and he has a silent tongue. But then we can’t be cut 
after one pattern, so cheer up, Nancy, woman.” But 


184 ORDEAL OF HANNAH MARKHAM 

Mrs. Reed shook her head sadly, and her eyes were a 
litde dim. 

“I don’t hold with it, George,” she said, timidly, 
for she was somewhat in awe of her big stalwart hus- 
band. “ Hannah is the flower of our flock, and could 
take her choice of a dozen honest lads. If she marries 
Steeve Markham I doubt if she will be as happy a 
woman as her mother has been.” But even Nancy 
wavered for a bit, when Hannah slyly enticed her over 
to Sandilands on pretence of purchasing a bargain at 
Crampton’s Stores, and then inveigled her to the End 
Cottage, for when the glories of the new parlour and 
the corner cupboards were displayed to her, Nancy 
Reed was not quite so sure that her daughter was to 
be pitied. 

“If only Steeve’ s mother were not to live with 
them,” she replied; but Hannah, who was sanguine 
by temperament, and inclined to see everything in 
couleur de rose, had offered no objection when Stephen 
had informed her of this arrangement. 

If Stephen Markham was a dour man, he certainly 
. inherited his austerity from his mother. Deborah was 
by no means a lovable woman. If she had deep feel- 
ings and warm affections, which many people doubted, 
she concealed them most successfully under a stern, 
uncompromising exterior. 

She was a little, white, thin-lipped woman, with 
strangely keen eyes. But for her eyes, her face would 
have been as expressionless as a wooden mask. ‘ ‘ Deb- 
orah has an east windy look,” Miriam was once heard 
to say, though she seldom criticised her neighbours ; 
“ it is not wholesome for a woman to hold her tongue 
six days of the week, for it makes her bitter on the 


NANCE REED’S DAUGHTER 185 

seventh ; but there, we don’t know what troubles she 
may have known, poor soul.” 

It was a bitter hour when Deborah first learnt from 
her son’s lips that he was to wed the blacksmith’s 
daughter. More than one well-meaning person had 
tried to give her a hint of what was coming, but Deb- 
orah had refused to be enlightened. 

” Stephen goes to the Brentwood Forge most Sunday 
evenings ; I am thinking Hannah Reed has got a new 
sweetheart,* ’ observed her neighbour ; but when these 
sort of speeches were made to her, Deborah’s thin lips 
only twitched slightly, but she made no answer. Even 
when Miss Batesby, who had a finger in every Sandi- 
lands pie, told her in a shocked voice that she had 
come upon Stephen Markham and Hannah Reed the 
previous evening walking hand in hand on the Brent- 
wood road, ‘ ‘ just for all the world as though they were 
acknowledged lovers,” finished Miss Batesby, Deb- 
orah only looked at her in silence, and then went to the 
oven door to take out her batch of new bread. 

Deborah never spoke to her son that day at dinner- 
time. The two often ate their meals silently. Stephen 
was making up his mind that he would break the news 
before he slept that night. “We are to be cried in 
church next Sunday, and it is time that I told her,” 
he said to himself, and when he came to this conclusion 
he gave himself a -shake, and went back to his work. 

Deborah stood at the window a moment watching 
him, her eyes had an ominous sparkle in them. 

“ He is full to the brim with it,” she thought, “and 
he will find his tongue to-night,” and then she went 
doggedly about her work. And no one would have 
guessed how her mother’s heart ached with almost 


i86 ORDEAL OF HANNAH MARKHAM 


physical agony. “And he is all I have — all I have,’’ 
she would moan at intervals, “and now he will be 
taken from me.” 

Deborah’s kitchen at tea time was always a pleasant 
sight. The bright firelight was reflected on the gleam- 
ing brasses and tins ; the well-scoured table and dresser 
set off the blue-rimmed plates and cups that were the 
pride of Deborah’ s heart ; the big rocking-chairs with 
their red twill cushions looked so inviting, while through 
the open door one had a side view of the yard, with its 
wood-piles and cart-wheels and miscellaneous lumber, 
and even the shed, with its carpenter’s bench littered 
with clean curly shavings, was clearly visible. 

When Stephen Markham crossed the threshold he 
seemed to block up the whole doorway. He was a 
big muscular man, very strongly developed in the chest 
and arms, but a little bowed in the legs, as though he 
had been a ricketty child, or had been allowed to walk 
too early. His features were good, and might almost 
have been considered handsome, but his repellent 
gravity and the gloom in his lustreless black eyes gave 
him a down aspect. He seldom smiled, and no one 
could remember hearing a hearty laugh from him, but 
Hannah had once told her mother that she had never 
seen any smile so sweet. ‘ ‘ It was just sunshine, mother, 
and transformed him ; it most took my breath away,” 
and ever afterwards the girl strove in her innocent play- 
ful way to make Stephen smile again. 

Stephen stood so long on the threshold that evening 
that Deborah grew impatient. 

“Come in, lad,” she said, sharply, “and sit you 
down ; your tea is ready,” and then Stephen came to 
the table, and cut himself a mighty slice of bread and 


NANCE REED’S DAUGHTER 187 

butter, which he ate with some young cress, and it was 
not until he had pushed up his cup for the third time 
that he broke silence. ‘ ‘ Mother, I am going to wed 
Hannah Reed. We are to be cried in church here, 
and at Brentwood, next Sunday.” 

Deborah made no answer, but the lid of the teapot 
slipped from her trembling hand and rattled against the 
sugar-basin. 

“ Do you hear me, mother?” and Stephen raised his 
voice. More than once he had known his mother affect 
deafness if the subject displeased her. 

“Ay, I hear you, Steeve,” she returned, dryly, 
“and more’s the pity. Well, lad, you have given me 
short notice. So in three weeks I am to turn out and 
give up my place to Nance Reed’s daughter.” Then 
Stephen brought down his hand on the table with a 
suppressed oath. 

“ It is like you to be aggravating, mother,” he said, 
angrily. ‘ ‘ Who but yourself would think of such a 
thing? Haven’t I worked for you ever since my 
father died ? and now, because I tell you I am going to 
wed Hannah Reed, you are throwing it against me, 
that I am turning my mother out of doors ! Ah ! you 
are ill to deal with, as my poor Hannah will find to her 
cost.” 

“Ay, my lad, have I mistook you?” returned Deb- 
orah, eagerly. ‘ ‘ Am I to stay when you bring your 
wife home ? Oh, the cottage is big enough, ’ ’ she went 
on ; “ there are three grand new rooms, which are far 
too good for the likes of me. Tell me quick, Steeve,” 
and here her eyes were almost piercing in their intensity. 
“Am I to go or stay?” 

“You are to stay,” but Stephen’s voice was harsh. 


1 88 ORDEAL OF HANNAH MARKHAM 


He was not even softened when his mother threw her 
apron over her head and burst into sobs that seemed to 
tear her to pieces with their violence. All these weeks 
she had silently borne a martyrdom of doubt and 
dread, and now the relief broke her down. 

‘ ‘ Ay, Steeve, God bless thee for saying that, * ^ she 
wailed. ‘ ‘ After all, I need not have fretted myself and 
doubted ; it would not have been like my good lad to 
turn his mother out of doors.” But this speech failed 
to touch Stephen, he only frowned as he cut himself 
some more bread. 

“lam glad you have come to your senses, mother,” 
he returned, almost roughly, ‘ ‘ but it is like you to look 
at the worst and the darkest side, ’ ’ and here there was a 
touch of repressed passion in his voice. ‘ ‘ Oh, I was 
a fool to expect sympathy,” he went on, bitterly, “ or 
to think you would wish me joy. I have slaved and 
worked since I was a youngster to keep the wolf from 
the door and a good roof over your head, and now you 
grudge my sweetheart a welcome.” 

“ Nay, Steeve, you must not say that,” and Deborah 
looked at him wistfully, ‘ ‘ your wife shall have her dues. 
Don’t I know there can only be one missis. I will just 
bide in my chimney corner and let Hannah tend thee,” 
and then her hand stole out to him, and her keen eyes 
were full of yearning tenderness ; but Stephen made 
no response. He had said his say, but in his heart he 
was hopeless of results. He knew the jealous bitter- 
ness with which his mother would yield her privileges 
to her daughter-in-law. 

“ Hannah will find her ill to deal with,” he muttered 
to himself, as he kindled his pipe in the porch. 

They were a strange couple, mother and son, and 


NANCE REED^S DAUGHTER 189 

from that night to the wedding morning no word about 
the future passed between them. 

Deborah went about her work silently, but she made 
no preparations for her daughter-in-law. It was Ste- 
phen who arranged the furniture in the parlour, and 
who tended the plants at the window. His mother 
only watched from afar, but when he was safely away 
she stole in to see the result of his labour. When 
she saw the new carpet and curtains, and the oval 
mirror over the mantel-shelf, a dull red colour came 
to her face. 

“ It is fine enough for Madam,” she muttered. “ I 
am thinking Nance Reed’s daughter has done grandly 
for herself, ’ ’ and at that moment there was almost hatred 
in her heart for Stephen’s sweetheart. 

When the wedding day arrived Stephen put on his 
best clothes, and then went to look for his mother. She 
was busy at her ironing and looked up at him sharply as 
he entered. 

“Well, I must be going,” he said, abruptly. “I 
shall bring Hannah home this evening. Don’ t trouble 
about supper. We shall have been eating and drinking 
enough ; for Mrs. Reed is giving a fine spread.” Then 
Deborah snorted. 

“I’ll warrant that of Nance Reed,” she said, se- 
verely. “ Ay, they are a wasteful lot. It is well you 
have money saved, Steeve, for you will need all you 
have got. Well, well, don’t let me keep you,” and 
then Stephen, with an impatient word, turned on his 
heel. His brow was dark with anger as he walked 
down the road, not even on his wedding day would she 
wish him joy. 

Deborah watched him until he was out of sight, then 


190 ORDEAL OF HANNAH MARKHAM 

she rocked herself in her chair and shed bitter tears of 
remorse over her evil temper. 

“Oh, my lad,” she moaned, “how could I treat 
thee so ill? My Steeve, and looking so grand and 
noble on his wedding day. I am just eaten up with 
my jealousy and my pride in him ; if it were only an- 
other sort of woman, but a good-looking wench with 
stuck-up notions and grand ways and not a penny in her 
pocket. Oh, it angers me sore to think of it, that my 
Steeve should choose a wife from a feckless lot like the 
Reeds,” and Deborah wept long and sorely. 

But when evening had come, she was in her best Sun- 
day merino and a spotless cap. The kitchen too was in 
nice order, and a tray with cake and ginger wine was 
on the table. Beside it lay a bunch of keys, ostenta- 
tiously laid on a fringed napkin. 

When Stephen, a little flushed, but holding his head 
high, entered the house with his girl wife hanging on 
his arm, Deborah winced, and her small thin face grew 
strangely white. She put up her hand to her eyes as 
though Hannah’s blooming looks and fresh young 
beauty almost dazzled her, but the next moment she 
recovered herself. 

“Good evening, Hannah,” she said, coldly, “sit 
you down, my woman,” but she did not offer to kiss 
her, though Hannah looked at her wistfully. ‘ ‘ Steeve, 
lad, you’ll be giving your wife a glass of our home- 
made ginger wine and some cake. It is for luck, if 
ever there is luck in this house, for the new-made wife 
to break bread before she goes up the stairs,” then as 
Stephen did his mother’s bidding, Hannah broke off a 
crumb or two and sipped her wine, but her eyes were 
full of tears. 


NANCE REED’S DAUGHTER 


191 

Deborah’s next speech gave her little consolation, 
for the keys were solemnly laid upon her lap. 

“The house is yours and you are mistress,” went 
on Deborah in the same dry toneless voice. ‘ ‘ Stephen 
will show you the keys of the press and the china cup- 
board,” and then she poured herself out some wine. 
‘ ‘ I drink your health, Hannah, and yours too, Stephen, 
and I hope neither of you will live to repent this day. 
Now I will wish you good- night, for it is getting late,” 
and then Deborah went off and lay wakeful and miser- 
able until morning. 

It was not a cheerful home-coming, and Hannah felt 
herself strangely chilled. 

“Don’t heed my mother, lass,” observed Stephen, 
soothingly, as he saw the cloud on his wife’s face. 

‘ ‘ She is a bit contrary and perverse at times, but her 
bark is worse than her bite, and she is not so ill at the 
bottom. She is put out, may be, because she has to 
knock under, and will be missis no longer, but you 
must just hold your own, Hannah, and I will help you.” 
But this was poor consolation to Hannah, who was 
affectionate and peace-loving, and who had grown up 
in an atmosphere of cheerfulness and good nature. 

Poor Hannah, it was a woeful change. At the 
Forge there had been a merry family party, big strap- 
ping brothers who came in from their work whistling 
and stumping heavily up and down the stairs. All day 
long her comely, voluble mother had bustled and 
catered for her household, assisted by her daughters, 
bnt when evening fell there was noise and laughter 
enough to blow the roof off, as George Reed would say, 
looking complacently round on his lads and lasses. 

But now Hannah had to do her work silently, only 


192 ORDEAL OF HANNAH MARKHAM 

overlooked by her mother-in-law’s severe eyes. Deb- 
orah’s keen glances followed her everywhere, until the 
poor girl felt as though the crockery would slip through 
her fingers from sheer nervousness. 

From the first Deborah had kept rigidly to the rule 
she had laid down for herself, and sat knitting in the 
chimney corner, leaving all the work of the house to 
her daughter-in-law, until Hannah in desperation ap- 
pealed to her husband. 

“ Steeve,” she said, passionately, “I can bear it no 
longer. Why does not your mother help me, instead 
of glowering at me morning, noon, and night from the 
chimney corner? It is driving me fairly silly, for I 
know that nothing pleases her. Yesterday she was 
finding fault with my baking, and to-day it was my 
ironing, but mother always had a good word for me. 
What is the use of my wearing myself out ?’ ’ and here 
Hannah, tired and discouraged, shed tears of vexation ; 
but Stephen tried to comfort her ; she was over done, 
and missed her brothers and sisters. When tea was 
over, he would take her for a stroll. She must not 
heed his mother’s nonsense ; the old woman was twisty 
and had got notions in her head. 

After this there was a stormy scene between Stephen 
and his mother, and one that it was well that Hannah 
did not witness. As usual, when Stephen was in a 
masterful mood, Deborah had to give way. 

“ Look here, mother,” he finished. “ I have done 
my duty to you, and now I mean to do it to my wife. 
If you can’t get along with Hannah better than this, I 
must just take rooms for you at the other end of the 
village. I won’t have her made miserable and repent- 
ing the day that she wed me,” and Stephen looked at 


NANCE REED’S DAUGHTER 


193 

his mother so fiercely, and his eyes shone with such 
angry fire, that Deborah was fairly cowed. 

The next day she waylaid her daughter-in-law. 
‘ ‘ That job is too heavy for you, Hannah ; let me finish 
it for you,” and she spoke so civilly that Hannah 
stared at her in amazement. 

After that she shared all Hannah’s work, taking on 
herself the hardest and least pleasing parts. ‘ ‘ I am 
tough and used to work,” was all she said when Han- 
nah begged her to spare herself ; “ it would send me 
crazy in a fortnight to do nought but knit socks in the 
chimney corner.” 

Stephen made no remark when he came in from the 
shed and found his mother at the wash-tub or pinning 
up the sheets and quilts on the clothes-lines, and 
though he was secretly pleased to see her baking bread 
and gingerbread as of old, he carefully refrained from 
all comment. ‘ ‘ His threat had frightened her, that 
was all,” he said to himself, but once when she had 
refused to let Hannah iron his shirts, he added to him- 
self 

‘ ‘ If she were not so terribly fond of me, she might 
find room in her heart for Hannah. ’ ’ 


13 


II 


A DUMB DEVIL 

Before many months, had passed, Hannah Mark- 
ham knew in her secret heart that she had made the 
great mistake of her life in marrying Stephen, and yet, 
strange to say, she loved him. 

As for Stephen, he worshipped her very shadow ; 
but his nature was singularly undemonstrative, and he 
lacked the power of expression. During their court- 
ing days, and the first two or three weeks of their 
early married life, while the wonder and delight of 
his new possession had transformed him for the time 
into another man, his devotion had fully satisfied 
Hannah ; he seemed never happy away from her, and 
haunted the place as any ordinary lover might have 
done, but by and by he relapsed into his old habits. 
If only Hannah had understood her husband’s com- 
plex nature ; but she was a warm-hearted, impulsive 
creature, and she mistook his reticence for coldness. 

Stephen did not love his yoiing wife less because 
he preferred spending his evenings in his workshed, 
making a grand cabinet for her parlour instead of 
walking with her to Sandy Point or Great Ditton ; but 
when Hannah, sick at heart and weary of her mother- 
in-law’s sour silence, took to going over to Brentwood 
and remaining for an hour or two at the Forge, chat- 
ting with her mother and laughing and joking with 
194 


A DUMB DEVIL 


195 


her brothers, Stephen felt sore and injured. ‘‘Itwas 
not meet for a young wife to be always trapesing up 
and down the Brentwood road,” he said a little 
sharply; “when a woman married, her place was at 
home, and under her husband’s roof, and he did not 
hold with such feckless ways.” 

If only Hannah had had her temper under control, 
and answered him mildly, Stephen’s wrath would have 
been quickly appeased ; but instead of that she broke 
into tears and passionate reproaches. 

‘ ‘ Why should she not go to her old home to see 
her parents and brothers and sisters ? why should 
Steeve grudge her a little pleasure when the day’s 
work was done ? Did he think his mother such good 
company, when she scarcely opened her lips until bed- 
time ?’ ’ and so on, with the quick, childish petulance 
that was natural to her. ‘ ‘ Why did you not tell me 
that I was to be a prisoner when you married me ?’ ’ 
went on Hannah with angry sobs, but Stephen made 
her no answer. He gave her a dark look, and went 
on with his turning ; and Hannah flung out of the 
shed, litde knowing the bitter storm she had raised. 

Stephen felt cruelly hurt. Hannah could not have 
much love for him, if his wishes were nothing to her ; 
surely a husband had a right to express an opinion. 
Hannah was so young and inexperienced, that she 
needed guidance and control. ‘ ‘ She is repenting al- 
ready that we are wed,” he said to himself, and that 
night the demon of jealousy awoke in the man’s soul. 

If only Hannah had had a wise confidante — but 
Nance Reed was an injudicious woman ; and she gave 
her daughter the worst possible advice. “You must 
not humour Steeve too much, Nanny,” she said the next 


196 ORDEAL OF HANNAH MARKHAM 

evening, when Hannah walked over to the Forge with 
her grievance ; “ it is not safe to let a man always get 
his way, or he will be putting his foot down, just for 
the pleasure of it. Ah, they are a masterful lot, even 
the best of them ; but it is not for a wife to cringe like 
a worm in the dust, you must speak your mind to him, 
my woman. Why, what ails Steeve that he should 
take such a notion in his head ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ He says it is not for a newly wedded wife to be 
always trapesing on the road,’’ returned Hannah, with 
a hysterical giggle. 

“Fiddle-de-dee,” returned Nance, scornfully ; “did 
ever a body hear such drivel ; Steeve must have lost 
his wits to talk such nonsense. My master kept me 
pretty tightly when we were first wed, but he was never 
so crazy as that ; does not a woman need the air as 
much when she is married. Trapesing the road in- 
deed,” and Nance tossed her comely head. “Why 
does not Steeve walk with you if he does not like the 
notion of your going alone ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ That is what I tell him,” returned Hannah, eagerly ; 
‘ ‘ but he always makes out that so much walking is 
waste of time, he likes better to be in that horrid old 
workshop of his. I think work is just play to him. I 
have left him at it now looking as glum as possible, but 
he never said one word when I told him where I was 
going ; and mother-in-law was just as silent. Oh, 
mother,” went on Hannah, passionately, “ I feel some- 
times as though the pair of them would drive me silly, 
it is like living with two dummies who have lost their 
speech, sometimes. I just talk aloud for the pleasure 
of hearing a voice. ” 

“Poor lass,” replied her mother, pityingly ; “ didn’t 


A DUMB DEVIL 


197 


I tell your father that if you ever made up with Steeve 
Markham, you would repent your bargain ? and now, 
in three months, my words have come true.” But 
with the strange inconsistency of her sex, Hannah no 
sooner heard her husband vilified than she began to 
defend him. 

“Nay, mother, you must not be too hard on Steeve. 
With all his masterful ways, he has been good to me, 
and it was through his taking my part that his mother 
has been so civil lately, and he spends all his spare 
time working for me. If only our natures were not so 
different, if he were only more of a talker, but there, I 
must just put up with him,” and Hannah rose from her 
seat with a sigh. 

“No, you must not go yet, Nanny,” returned 
Nance, with foolish good-nature. A woman better 
versed in human nature would have recommended her 
daughter to go home as quickly as possible. “No, I 
will not part with you. Your father will be in directly, 
and Jem and Dick with him, and they will be fine and 
glad to see you. Sit down, my lass, while I take the 
cake out of the oven.” 

And then Hannah, silencing an inward voice that 
whispered to her to go, sat down again and joined the 
merry party that gathered round the table, and soon 
her ringing laugh sounded through the open door, and 
reached the ears of a man coming up the road. 

Stephen Markham never quite knew what put it in 
his head to follow his wife, but when Hannah had left 
the workshop, he had fought a hard battle with him- 
self. 

Hannah’s mutinous spirit and want of wifely submis- 
sion had angered him sorely ; she had set herself against 


198 ORDEAL OF HANNAH MARKHAM 

him, and absolutely defied him. And then when he 
thought of the future, and how this first breach might 
widen between them, a chill fear came over him. 

Perhaps he had been over strict with the lass, he had 
not minded the difference of her up-bringing ; she was 
young and lively, and his mother’s glum ways tried 
her. ‘ ‘ She is like a bird anxious to fly back to the 
old nest,” he thought, and then his eyes gleamed and 
softened, and his heart heaved with his passionate love. 
No, this once he would not be hard on her ; he would 
put by his work and dress himself, and walk over to 
the Forge and bring her back. If only Hannah had 
not suffered herself to be persuaded to stay, he would 
have met her half-way, and his heart would have 
danced with joy at the unexpected sight, and in spite of 
his undemonstrative nature, Steeve would have drawn 
her to his side with a word of endearment ; at such 
moments she would be his jewel, his good little lass, or 
his pretty Nanny ; and then the sunshine of his rare 
smile would have enfolded her. 

But, alas, Stephen Markham’s evil genius was in the 
ascendant that evening ; and as he leant against the 
palings of the Forge garden a moment, reluctant to join 
the family party, Hannah’s ringing laugh reached his ear. 

‘ ‘ ife is a dour ill-conditioned chap, and you have made 
a bad bargain, Nanny, ’ ’ observed a lad’ s voice. ‘ ‘Nay, 
nay. I’ll not listen to that, Jem,” returned Hannah, 
but she laughed again ; how was Stephen to guess that 
Jem was only talking of the black Bantam, who was 
such a fighter. Stephen turned away, but he did not 
go home ; Giles Worrall, a farmer living at Great Dit- 
ton, met him an hour later, walking up the road to 
Sandy Point like a man possessed. 


A DUMB DEVIL 


199 


‘ ‘ He had a dumb devil, ’ ’ Giles said, shrugging his 
shoulders — for he had given him a neighbourly good- 
evening — and had met with no response ; and then he 
shook his head meaningly. 

Jem walked home with his sister and left her at her 
door. Hannah, who was a little ashamed of herself 
when she knew the lateness of the hour, was half inclined 
to apologise to her husband, but when Deborah told 
her that the workshed was locked, and that Stephen 
was still out, Hannah became uneasy. 

‘ ‘ I thought he was with you, for he took the Brent- 
wood road,” went on Deborah — and then she looked 
suspiciously at her daughter-in-law ; had they quarrelled 
already ? why were they spending the evening apart ? 
but before she had time to put the question, Hannah 
had caught sight of Stephen coming slowly up the 
path, and with her usual impulsiveness she ran to meet 
him. 

” Oh, Steeve, where have you been?” she said, 
quickly, and would have taken his arm, but he shook 
her off as though her touch angered him. He was 
dog-tired and had worked himself into one of his silent 
rages. Giles Worrall was not far wrong when he said 
a dumb devil possessed him. All his life Stephen Mark- 
ham had at times felt an evil spirit striving within him 
for the mastery. 

‘ ‘ Nay, I am not accountable to thee for my move- 
ments,” he said, rudely ; and then he pushed by her 
and went into the house. Hannah was so taken aback 
by this rebuff, the first she had ever had from him, that 
she hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry. She stood 
half dazed as he went to the larder and brought him- 
self out some food and drink ; she did not dare offer to 


200 ORDEAL OF HANNAH MARKHAM 


assist him ; his mother only smiled sourly as she turned 
the heel of her stocking ‘ ‘ I knew it, ’ ’ she said to 
herself, ‘ ‘ the wench has angered him past bearing with 
her giddy ways ; Steeve has such notions for his age. 
Didn’t I tell him that if he married Nance Reed’s 
daughter he would live to repent his folly?” but 
Deborah’s hands were cold and shaking as she put up 
her wool. 

Hannah lingered timidly in the background ; she 
was afraid of her husband in this mood. She would 
have humbled herself if he had given her the least 
opening, but Stephen seemed unconscious of her pres- 
ence. When he had finished his supper he went into 
the woodyard, slamming the cottage door after him ; 
and Hannah went to her bed, and cried herself to 
sleep. 

From this day the breach widened perceptibly be- 
tween the wife and husband. Hannah, who was ailing 
and miserable, brooded sullenly over her troubles, or 
sought comfort in her mother’s sympathy. As the 
months went on the atmosphere of her home became 
unbearable to her, and she pined like a plant shut up 
in a dark cellar ; her bright colour faded, and her face 
looked white and pinched. Deborah grew anxious 
about her at last, and spoke to her son privately. 
“You must not be too hard on her, Steeve,” she said 
to him, pleadingly. “I doubt the lass is not over 
well, she is a young thing, and young things need 
plenty of patience ;’ ’ but Stephen, who was in an evil 
mood, only scoffed at this. 

“She is only sulking a bit because she cannot get 
her way,” he said, flinging the words at his mother so 
loudly that Hannah heard them ; “but she has found 


A DUMB DEVIL 


201 


out that I mean to be master for there had been a 
sad scene at the cottage. Stephen, half maddened by 
Hannah’s perversity and his own jealousy, had for- 
bidden her at last to go to the Forge — and his manner 
had been so wild and menacing, that Hannah for the first 
time had been completely cowed — could Stephen have 
been drinking, she wondered, his face had been flushed 
of late, and even Deborah seemed anxious about him. 

‘ ‘ Hannah, ’ ’ she said more than once during those 
dark days, ‘ ‘ Steeve is a bit hard at times, but it would 
be best to humour him. He has taken the wrong bit 
in his mouth, and Giles Worrall tells me he has been 
seen lately at the Fox and Hounds ; if you could be a 
little cheerful with him, instead of giving a cold shoul- 
der when he comes in of an evening. Try, my lass.” 
But Hannah, sick at heart, took no notice of this ap- 
peal — her heart was turning against her husband, he 
was making her a prisoner in her own house. She 
wanted her mother ; and when Deborah coaxed her to 
eat, bringing her homely dainties that she had cooked 
herself, Hannah only turned peevishly away. It was 
not food she wanted, or any other creature comfort, it 
was only sunshine and cheerfulness and kindly words ; 
but Stephen, angered at what he chose to consider 
Hannah’s temper and sullenness, only gave her dark 
looks when he came in for his meals. 

And yet, if Hannah had only guessed that her own 
disappointment and heart-sickness were not to be com- 
pared to Stephen’s ; that the man’s heart was slowly 
breaking within him — his young wife had no love for 
him, she loathed the very sight of him — and, indeed, 
Stephen’s unshorn, haggard face and the sombre fire 
in his eyes seemed to repel Hannah. 


202 ORDEAL OF HANNAH MARKHAM 


One evening, when there were sharp words between 
them, Stephen, who had been drinking freely at the 
Fox and Hounds, so lost all control over himself that 
he actually lifted up his hand to strike her. Then Deb- 
orah rushed between them, with a face like death, and 
hung with all her feeble force on his arm. 

“No, my lad,” she said, gently, “ you must not do 
that, Steeve. Hannah is your own flesh ; a man is 
bound to reverence his wife. Speak to him kindly, my 
wench — he is more angered at himself than at you 
but Hannah’s passionate resentment would not listen 
to this. 

Stephen had lifted up his cruel hand against her. 
But for his mother’s interference he would have struck 
her. What if he had been drinking ; was that any 
excuse ? 

“ Shame on you, Stephen,” she said, angrily ; “ only 
a coward would strike his wedded wife. I will not stay 
here to be ill-treated. Heaven knows that my life has 
been hateful ever since I entered this house, but I will 
put up with it no longer.” 

“ Hannah, Hannah, my wench, for God’s sake speak 
him fair;” but Deborah’s voice of agonised entreaty 
failed to reach her daughter-in-law. Then Stephen, 
driven to frenzy by Hannah’s hysterical words, seized 
his wife roughly by the arm. 

“Oh, you need not be feared. Mistress,” he said, 
rudely. “ I will not strike a poor puling thing like 
thee — but you shall listen to me. 

“ I will not have you carry tales to the Forge, mind 
that. You are my wife, and I will master you some- 
how ; bide here quietly, and, though I am angered, 
I will do you no harm, but if you leave this house 


A DUMB DEVIL 


203 


to-night, you will find it barred against you,” and 
then he flung her from him, and went out, and shut 
himself in the workshop. 

Hannah pushed up her sleeve and looked at her arm. 
Stephen’s savage grip had left a dark bruise on her ten- 
der flesh. Deborah glanced at it in pity. 

“Hannah,” she said, soothingly, “the poor lad 
never meant to hurt you ; he fairly worships the ground 
you walk on ; it maddens him to see you so contrary. 
If you would only say a kind word to him, he would 
be shamed and ask pardon.” But Hannah only sobbed 
hysterically. 

“I will not bear it,” she said, passionately. “No 
one has ever raised a hand against me before;” and then 
she laid her cheek tenderly against the bruise, bemoan- 
ing herself in her petulant childish way. 

Poor Hannah, she was little better than a child, 
she was so wayward and undisciplined. When Deb- 
orah tried to coax and soothe her she refused to be 
comforted. 

“ Dry your eyes, my wench, and I will set on the 
kettle and make you a cup of tea, ’ ’ she said, tenderly. 
“You have eaten next to nothing, and now all this up- 
set has taken the heart out of you. ’ ’ But Hannah dis- 
regarded this good advice. She was sick and faint, and 
there was a strange sinking at her heart. She was ill, 
and Deborah knew it — and all her motherly compassion 
was aroused. 

“Sit down in the big chair and I will have tea 
ready in a twinkling, ’ ’ she went on ; and when Han- 
nah made no answer, she thought the worst of the 
storm was over. 

It was a warm September evening, and the fire had 


204 ORDEAL OF HANNAH MARKHAM 

been lighted in the outer scullery, and there Deborah 
busied herself with her preparations, but her limbs 
trembled and she moved slowly — these constant scenes 
were sapping her strength, she was growing old, and 
wanted peace and a little quiet, for her life had been a 
hard one ,* and now her heart was sore with the thought 
of her son’s misery, “Ay, he has bruised his own 
heart more than he has bruised her arm,’’ she said to 
herself, as she took down a gaily painted cup and sau- 
cer, and then a little scene recurred to her memory. 
Hannah had been busy rolling out some dough, when 
Stephen had come into the house on some errand, and 
had lingered to watch her at her task. Hannah had 
tucked up her sleeves to prevent the flour from touch- 
ing them, and her white arms looked very round and 
fair, suddenly Stephen had stooped and kissed one 
dimpled elbow, a real lover’ s kiss. ‘ ‘ My little Nannie, ’ ’ 
he had said, tenderly, and Hannah had blushed with 
pleasure, and now the dark grip of his fingers had 
obliterated all memory of that kiss. ‘ ‘ Oh, the pity of 
it,’’ she thought ; and then as the tea-tray was ready, 
she carried it in, but Hannah had gone, she was not 
in the parlour or in her bedroom, and when Deborah, 
with a sad misgiving at her heart, went out of the gar- 
den gate, she could just see a dark figure running 
quickly down the Brentwood road. 

Deborah felt sorely frightened. Was the wench mad 
to play a trick on her like that. If she had had strength, 
she would have followed her to the Forge, and compelled 
her to return, and neither she nor her mother could 
have resisted her appeal ; but, alas! she had no power to 
accomplish half the distance. 

“I must do the best I can,’’ she muttered, and then 


A DUMB DEVIL 


205 


she carried the little tray into the workshop. Stephen 
was sitting on his workman’s bench, but his head was 
in his hands. He looked up impatiently when his mother 
laid her hand on his shoulder. 

*‘I have brought you some tea, Steeve,” she said, 
gently. ‘‘You are tired and fevered, and there is no 
medicine like it ; take a cup to please me, lad. ’ ’ But 
he only shook his head. 

“I care naught for it,” he said, mechanically; for 
one wild moment he had thought it was his wife’s hand 
that had lifted the latch ; if she had come to seek him, 
if she had looked at him without anger or taunting 
scorn in her eyes, he would have knelt at her feet and 
prayed her to pardon his violence. 

“ It is the drink, ’ ’ he had moaned more than once ; 
“it was as though some devil had got hold of me, and 
I would have struck her, my little Nannie — ^savage 
brute that I was ; no wonder she shrank away from 
me. If I go on like this, I shall make her hate 
me. 

“Let me see thee drink some tea, lad,” persisted 
Deborah, and she held the cup to his lips as though he 
were a child, and then Stephen yielded. 

Deborah carried away the empty cup, but when 
she was outside the door, she stood still for a mo- 
ment. 

“Ah, woe is me,” she said, with a little tearless sob. 

‘ ‘ This is a weary world, and there is nought but bitter- 
ness in it. My lad is just breaking his heart over his 
own hardness ; but when he comes in and finds Hannah 
gone, there will not be one devil but a legion,” and 
then she sat down and took up her knitting. 

Stephen did not return to the house until it was 


206 ORDEAL OF HANNAH MARKHAM 


growing dusk. When he found his mother alone in 
the kitchen, he looked at her for a moment in a fierce 
questioning way, then he refrained himself and went 
upstairs — afterwards she heard him moving about the 
parlour. 

When he came back, he made a pretence of taking 
his supper, but very little food passed his lips ; then 
he went out into the garden and woodyard, and finally, 
when the clock struck ten, he came in and began bolt- 
ing the door. 

Deborah watched him. ^ ‘ There is no need for that, 
Steeve, ’ ’ she said, with a little laugh ; “go to bed, 
lad, and when Hannah comes in, I will tell her not to 
disturb you.” But Stephen’s sole answer was a fierce 
oath. The bolt was a little rusty with disuse, and he 
had some difficulty with it, but it shot into its place at 
last, then he fastened the scullery door, and took out 
the key. 

“ If Hannah knocks, you can tell her to go back to 
the Forge,” he said. And then before Deborah could 
answer, he had gone upstairs, and she heard him lock 
himself in. 

Meanwhile Hannah was driving down the Brentwood 
road in Giles Worrall’s covered gig ; his business had 
detained him in Brentwood until late that night, and as 
he was passing the Forge, George Reed had asked him 
to give Hannah a lift. 

‘ ‘ She has been spending the evening with me and 
the Missis, and is rather in a hurry to get home. Up 
with you, Nannie,” he continued, sharply, “don’t keep 
her, mother, or Steeve will be vexed ; Giles will drop 
you at the cross-roads, and then you will only have a 
dozen yards to walk and so saying, he hdped his 


A DUMB DEVIL 


207 


daughter into the cart, and with a cheery good-night 
went into the Forge. 

Hannah looked back at the lighted windows with sad 
yearnings ; she had left her mother crying bitterly in 
the chimney corner, and exclaiming at her husband’s 
hardness of heart. 

“Let Nannie bide with us the night,” she had 
pleaded. “You can see for yourself, George, that 
the poor lass is not fit to tramp the road in this dark- 
ness ; by the morning she will be rested.” 

“She will bide under her husband’s roof to-night,” 
returned George Reed, obstinately. “You are naught 
but a fool, Nance, to set her up against Steeve in this 
way — don’ t we know to our cost that he has forbidden 
her to take the Brentwood road, and you would be 
keeping her the night. ’ ’ 

“But he treats her ill,” sobbed Nance. “I have 
seen the mark of his wicked hand. He would have 
struck her, only Deb Markham put herself between 
them.” 

“Pish, nonsense,” returned the blacksmith, wrath- 
fully ; it made him angry to think of Nannie’s bruised 
arm. ‘ ‘ Steeve is a dour man, and he was in his tan- 
trums, but Nannie will come to no harm with him, he 
is a deal too fond of her.” And then he had gone 
into the road to watch for Giles Worrall. 

‘ ‘ He will not let you bide, Nannie,” observed Nance, 
sorrowfully ; “ oh, but they are masterful these men.” 

“But, mother,” exclaimed Hannah, piteously, “if 
Steeve will not let me enter, ’ ’ and then she began to 
sob afresh. 

“Nay, lass, he’ll let you in fast enough, and be 
thankful to do it.” And Nance actually believed her 


208 ORDEAL OF HANNAH MARKHAM 


own words. “But you must speak him fair,” and 
then George Reed’s voice interrupted them, and be- 
fore Hannah could remonstrate, her father had lifted 
her into the cart, and the grey mare was jogging com- 
fortably down the road. 


Ill 


HOW THE DEVIL WAS CAST OUT 

When Hannah Markham stood under the sign-post 
at the cross-roads, and watched Giles Worrall’s cart 
and grey mare disappear, she felt as though she were 
in some nightmare. 

It was not quite half-past ten ; but already the vil- 
lage seemed asleep. A profound stillness seemed to 
hover over the whole place. 

It was one of those glorious September nights. The 
harvest moon hung like a great golden globe over the 
dark fir woods, the roads were white as though they 
were paved with silver ; now and then there was a 
faint crackling among the furze-bushes, and occasion- 
ally the hooting of an owl was audible — but when the 
chimes rang out across the valley, Hannah started and 
shivered as though some sudden fear had come to her ; 
the next moment she walked quickly down the road 
and unlatched the little gate. 

Evidently she was not expected — the cottage was 
dark, and the door securely fastened ; her hand shook 
a little as she raised the knocker, but before she could 
lift it she heard a window open. ‘ ‘ Hannah, my poor 
lass, is that you ?’ ’ then still more cautiously, ‘ ‘ Hush ! 
do not answer. I can see you plainly now ; go round 
to the back and I will speak to you.” 

Hannah obeyed — she was worn out and felt sick and 
14 209 


210 ORDEAL OF HANNAH MARKHAM 


chill, and the darkness and silence and mystery affected 
her strangely. Why was her mother-in-law so slow ? 
surely she could light a candle, and unfasten the scul- 
lery door, without all this delay ; but to her surprise 
the window of the little end room where Deborah slept 
was softly opened over her head. 

‘ ‘ Hannah, my wench, come closer. I want no one 
to hear us. You have played a fool’s trick this even- 
ing, and the devil has tempted my poor lad to evil. 
Oh, but Steeve is just mad with you, he has barred up 
the front door, and he has taken away the key of the 
back kitchen so that I cannot let you in, and he has 
locked himself in ; he will not hearken or answer, 
though I have prayed him for one word. Oh ! he is 
in a fearsome state, and it is all your fault.” And 
Deborah wrung her hands in sore anguish of spirit. 

Hannah turned deadly sick, and a clammy coldness 
seemed to bedew her forehead. She leant against the 
wall, and then a choking sob seemed to relieve her. 

“Mrs. Markham,” she said, hoarsely “if you leave 
me out here alone in the moonlight, I shall die of 
fear. The world seems dead to-night, and I cannot 
bear it. Go to Steeve, tell him I am ill, and that I am 
sorry I said sharp things and angered him, and I will 
bide at home — ^go, go,” and her voice rose almost to 
an hysterical scream. 

“Hush, my lass, hush ! Yes, I will go to Steeve, 
and make him hearken — keep quiet and still — there is 
nought to hurt you,” and then Hannah, soothed by 
the womanly sympathy in her mother-in-law’s voice, 
crouched down on the doorstep and waited. 

Poor child, it was an awful experience to be turned 
out of doors by her own husband. To her proud, un- 


HOW THE DEVIL WAS CAST OUT 21 1 


disciplined spirit the disgrace was greater than she 
could bear. 

‘ ‘ I hate him for this. I hate him— tyrant — coward 
— bully, that he is,” she said to herself over and over 
again. ‘ ‘ I will never — never forgive him as long as I 
live,” her sobs almost strangling her, and all the time 
her ears were straining to hear the key turn in the 
lock. But, alas ! Deborah’s voice sounded again from 
the upper window. 

” Hannah, where are you, lassie? Oh, poor lamb !” 
as the sound of Hannah’s weeping reached her ear. ” I 
have knocked and called to Steeve until I was weary, 
but I doubt he is not there, for the window is open ; 
he has let himself down by the porch, and he may 
be in the woodyard or workshed ; go to him, lass, and 
humble yourself, and perhaps he will let you in ’ ’ 

” No, no, I dare not ; he would kill me,” and Hannah 
moaned outright. “He is killing me now with cold 
and fright. Oh, mother, mother, why did you send 
me back to die on my own doorstep ?’ ’ 

“Hush, hush, my dearie, you must not lose heart,” 
and Deborah’s tone was tender as though she were 
speaking to a babe. ‘ ‘ I cannot get to you, but I 
have thought of something that may help us a little. 
I will throw down some wraps first. Hannah, do you 
mind the larder window, it is small, dear, but I can 
pass my hand through it. I am going to kindle a fire 
and make some tea” — Deb’s unfailing panacea for all 
ailments, bodily and mental — “and then I will sit be- 
side thee until morning. Hannah, you must be good, 
and do as I bid thee, and I will love you as though 
you were my own.” 

A thrill of comfort passed through Hannah’s sore 


212 ORDEAL OF HANNAH MARKHAM 


and wounded heart. Her nature made instant re- 
sponse to this unexpected kindness ; but her answer 
was childish enough. 

‘ ‘ Will you hold my hand ?’ ’ 

“Ay, that I will, dearie,” returned Deborah, heartily. 
‘ ‘ Now catch this blanket and this nice warm shawl, the 
night is warm, and there is no fear that you will take 
cold ; there is a little stool in the porch that Steeve 
made for you — ^fetch it, Hannah, and then you can 
rest a bit.” 

Hannah dried her eyes and did as she was bid, and 
placed the stool underneath the larder window. Deb- 
orah’s grey shawl felt warm and comfortable, and 
when she had wrapped the blanket round her, her 
teeth ceased to chatter, but it seemed long to both of 
them before the kettle boiled. When Deborah passed 
the cup through the tiny window the icy coldness of 
Hannah’s hand alarmed her, but she only pressed her 
kindly to eat and drink. ‘ ‘ It will drive the chill away, 
and give you strength,” she said more than once, but 
though Hannah drank the tea thankfully she could eat 
nothing. “ It turns me sick,” was all she said. And 
the next moment Deborah’s hard wrinkled hand was 
holding hers. 

“ There, dearie. I’m as close as I can be ; put your 
head against my arm, and maybe you will sleep. 
What ails you, Hannah? a moment ago you were like a 
piece of ice, and now you are burning. ’ ’ 

“I think I am ill,” replied Hannah in a choked 
voice. “ My head aches and feels heavy as lead, and 
now and again I have such a sinking feeling. Mrs. 
Markham, if I die, Steeve will never forgive himself 
for this night’s work.” 


HOW THE DEVIL WAS CAST OUT 213 

‘ ‘ He will never forgive himself, now, Hannah. 
Don’t you mind that grand story of the man among 
the tombs, and how the devils drove him into deso- 
late places ? Well, when I read that I always think of 
my Steeve, he is just as though he were possessed at 
times with an evil spirit. Many and many a time I 
have asked the Lord to cast it out ; but my prayer 
has never been answered. Ah ! I have had a sore 
time with him and with his father before him,” and in 
the darkness the slow tears of age stole down Deborah’s 
face. 

“Go on; tell me about it,” murmured Hannah, 
dreamily. It was only silence she dreaded ; to her 
excited fancy there were dark shadows creeping up the 
garden path, and she half turned and hid her face 
against Deborah’s arm. 

“Yes, I will tell you as though you were my own 
child,” went on Deborah. “To-night I am so full of 
pity and trouble. Hannah, when Steeve married you 
I was terribly set against the match. I knew my lad’s 
nature, and I thought there were few women who could 
put up with his contrary ways, and I could not find it 
in my heart to give you welcome ; it was like frowning 
at a sunbeam, you looked so sonsie and bonnie the day 
you were wedded. ’ ’ 

Hannah shuddered at the recollection — and it was 
only six months ago ! Had Nance Reed’s bonnie 
daughter come to this, that she must pass the night 
like an outcast on her own doorstep. 

“ Hannah, my Steeve is a dour man, and so was his 
father before him ; but with all his moods and his 
tempers he is a better man than his poor father. 

“When I married Jem I was just such a feckless. 


214 ORDEAL OF HANNAH MARKHAM 

giddy lass as you were when Steeve took to courting 
you. All my folks were set dead against him, but I 
would hearken to none of them. 

‘ ‘ I remember my mother saying to me, ‘ Deb, I 
would sooner see thee in thy coffin than have thee wed 
Jem Markham. There is Silas Pickering, a sober. 
God-fearing, honest man, and he would make thee the 
best of husbands, and thy father is just set on thee 
taking him but I would not hearken ; it was Jem I 
wanted, and in the end, and to my cost, I married 
him.” 

‘ ‘ And he was unkind to you as Steeve is to me ?’ ’ 
and here Hannah began to sob again. 

“No, dearie, he was never unkind to me ; he was 
too set on me for that, but when the drink mastered 
him I hardly dared go near him. I was that fearful of 
him that over and over again I have taken refuge with 
mother in her cottage, and hid myself and my baby ; 
but I need not have been so frighted, for Jem would 
never have laid a hand on me. 

* ‘ ‘ Deb, ’ he said once, ‘ thou need not be so scared 
at me. It maddens me to find the cottage empty and 
thee and the child away,’ but I was young and foolish 
and I did not heed this. 

* ‘ Hannah, lass, are you listening ? for the worst is 
to come. I loved Jem dearly, and he loved me, and 
neither of us knew that he was suffering from the effects 
of an old sunstroke, and that a little drink fairly drove 
him mad. If I had known that I would have stayed 
with him to help him. 

‘‘One evening he had gone to the Fox and Hounds, 
and he remained away so long that I got one of my 
panics. I had put Steeve to bed, but I lifted him out 


HOW THE DEVIL WAS CAST OUT 215 

of his cot and wrapped him up in my shawl and I went 
down the road to mother. She was a widow then. 

“ It was just such a night as this — clear moonlight— 7* 
and I remembered how black the firs looked against 
the sky. Mother was reading her Bible in the porch 
and did not seem quite pleased to see me. 

“ ‘ Deb,’ she said a bit sharply, ‘ it is a wife’s duty 
to stay with her husband and make the best of him. I 
don’t hold with running away from one’s duty.’ 

“ Well, you see, I was a bit spoiled, and any oppo- 
sition made me sulky. I knew myself that my panic 
was childish, and that I ought to go back and get Jem’s 
supper ready, but when mother said that, I just sat 
down and rocked Steevie and began talking nonsense 
to him ; and by and by, who should come up to the 
gate but Jem himself, and when he saw me sitting in 
the porch he shouted out to me rather roughly to come 
home, but I took no notice. Mother put down her 
book and whispered to me to go with him. ‘Jem’s 
been drinking, and he is not in the best of tempers, but 
you must humour him. Deb,’ she said. Ah, if I had 
only listened to mother. ‘ Well, are you coming, 
lass?’ and here Jem shook the gate and that made 
Steevie wake up. 

“ ‘ Oh ! go away, Jem,’ I said, crossly. ‘ I am sick 
to death of the very sight of you.’ Ah, you may well 
look shocked, Hannah; sometimes even now I wake up 
in the darkness, and those cruel words seem written in 
fire on the very walls. But it was only temper and per- 
versity and I meant nothing by them. 

‘ ‘ Half an hour afterwards I went home quietly enough; 
but Jem was not there. He had gone back to the Fox 
and Hounds. That night, oh, Hannah, pity me, Jem, 


2i6 ordeal of HANNAH MARKHAM 


my Jem, Steeve’s father, drowned himself in a fit of 
madness in the long pond at Ditton.” 

Hannah uttered a shocked exclamation. ‘ ‘ Oh ! you 
poor thing ! you poor thing !’ ’ she said, pressing her 
cheek to the rough toil-worn hand. At that moment 
she had forgotten her own troubles as she listened to 
Deb’s tragical story. 

‘ ‘ My dearie, ’ ’ went on Deb, slowly, ‘ ‘ when they 
broke the news to me, and I saw them carry my Jem 
home on men’s shoulders, I was near losing my reason. 
I turned like a stone, and my tears seemed to dry up. 
When mother wept and prayed over me I gave no heed 
to her. Many a time has she told me since that they 
feared I should have brain fever. 

“Well, that was five-and-twenty years ago, and my 
Steeve is just Jem’s age now. Five-and-twenty years 
have I carried my burden, and only the good Lord 
knows when I may lay it down. Now, you know, Han- 
nah, the reason of my glum moods and moping ways, 
and why I have forgotten how to smile ; even Steeve at 
times finds me ill to live with and loses patience with 
me, and now and then there are sharp words between 
us, and yet he is a good lad to me. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Poor Mammie Markham, ’ ’ observed Hannah, pity- 
ingly ; and from this night Deb was always mammie to 
her. How Deb thrilled at the name ! 

“There, I have finished my story,” she went on. 
“ Hannah, I have been bitterly hard to you, and yet in 
my heart I have yearned for a daughter, but since Jem 
left me it seemed as though all power of loving had 
died within me ; but I see now I was wrong, and may 
be when this trouble is over we may find comfort in each 
other ; but, dearie, you must forgive Steeve.” 


HOW THE DEVIL WAS CAST OUT 217 

Hannah sighed. Deborah’s story had strangely 
affected her, and she no longer felt so bitterly angry 
with Stephen. Just then Deb moved her arm — it was 
getting painfully cramped. 

“You are not so fearful now, Hannah?” she said, 
tenderly ; ‘ ‘ my old arms will not bear the strain and 
the cold any longer, but I am close beside you. ’ ’ 

“No, no,” returned Hannah, shocked at her own 
selfishness. “You will take your death, my poor 
mammie, if you sit here any longer. Go and warm 
yourself, and I will walk up and down a little ; it must 
be near morning now,” and Hannah, struggling bravely 
with the faintness that threatened to overcome her, 
rose stiffly from her seat, and moved slowly down the 
garden path. 

What had become of her terror ? The darkness, and 
the creeping shadows and the weird silence, no longer 
oppressed her. Some strange fever burned within her 
veins, and she felt curiously light-headed ; more than 
once she seemed to hear her name, and thought Stephen 
was calling to her, and though her limbs trembled with 
weakness she tried to reach the workshop. 

As she stood by the door, groping for the latch in 
the darkness,, she distinctly heard a movement within ; 
the next moment the latch yielded and she crossed the 
threshold noiselessly. Stephen’s dark lantern was on 
the bench, and by its light she could distinctly see a 
dark figure lying face downward upon the shavings ; 
then a man’s hoarse sobs, that most terrible of sounds, 
broke on her ear. 

“ My Nannie, my Nannie,” he groaned, “my little 
wife, locked out in the cold and dark, and the devil 
within me made me do it. My pretty Nannie, and I 


2i8 ordeal of HANNAH MARKHAM 


worshipped the very ground she trod on, but she has 
a proud spirit, and she will never forgive me this. Oh, 
my God, she will hate me, and I shall have the misery 
of seeing her shrink from me,” and again the fierce 
tearless sobs seemed to shake him terribly. 

“What is to become of us?” he moaned, presently, 
while Hannah, pressing her hands to her bosom, 
listened pitifully. “I am just mad with love and 
jealousy, and she cares nought for me ; if she only 
would give me a kind look or word I would be as 
grateful as a famished dog for a bone, but I have nought 
but sulks and temper. 

“I was a fool to wed her,” he went on more sullenly, 
‘ ‘ for she is just pining like a bird in a cage, and her 
scorn is turning me into a devil. Even mother was 
scared at me when I drew the bolts. I could see in 
her face that I reminded her of father. Ah, there it is 
again. Oh, my God, how am I to resist it when the 
foul fiends are all night long tempting me with the 
thought of the long pool at Ditton ? It would be such 
an easy death, and my Nannie would be fine and glad 
to be rid of me,” but as Stephen uttered these wild 
despairing words two cold arms tried to raise his head. 

“No, no, Steeve,” cried a weak toneless voice that 
could scarcely be recognised. “You shall not drown 
yourself like Jem. I will not let you. Come home 
with Nannie, love. Oh, my Steeve, you have used me 
badly, but I love you still, I have always, always loved 
you,” and then the words seemed to gurgle oddly in 
her throat, and there was a strange surging in her ears, 
and before Stephen could disengage himself to look in her 
face she had fallen heavily to the ground like a dead thing. 

:f: ***** * 


HOW THE DEVIL WAS CAST OUT 


219 


“She is out of danger now, Steeve, my lad. Do 
you hear me ? the doctor says there is hope that she 
will go on well ; only until the child is born we must 
tend her carefully. Steeve, why do you not hearken ?’ ’ 
then as Deborah shook him by the shoulder, Stephen 
raised his white, haggard face and looked at her. 

“Yes, I hear you, mother,” he said, in a dry, husky 
voice ; ‘ ‘ but I can’t bring myself to believe it. If Nannie 
dies and the child dies I shall have been their mur- 
derer.” 

Deborah sighed heavily, and the tears gathered in 
her dim eyes. 

“God help thee, poor lad,” she said, sorrowfully; 
and then she went back to her daughter-in-law. 

For five weeks Hannah had lain in the grip of a 
deadly sickness ; a slow fever that had seemed as 
though it would consume her very life ; and all those 
weeks she had been watched and nursed night and day 
by Stephen. 

How he had lived without sleep no one knew ; but 
those broken nights and days of anguish turned his hair 
grey, but no entreaties, no offers of help from kindly 
neighbours, could induce him to spare himself ; even 
Nance Reed pleaded in vain to take his place. 

“Steeve, my lad,” she said, pitifully, “Nannie 
knows none of us, and you can lie down a bit and leave 
her to me. I have done a power of nursing in my 
day,” but Stephen only shook his head. 

“ I can’t rest away from her,” he said, hoarsely. “ I 
have tried, but the terror masters me. I will lie beside 
her and hold her hand, and then maybe I might sleep 
a little.” 

‘ ‘ Do so, lad, and I will watch you both, ’ ’ returned 


220 ORDEAL OF HANNAH MARKHAM 


the kindly creature, and then with true womanly instinct 
she said, artfully, — 

‘ ‘ I think Nannie seems to miss you when you go out 
of the room, Steeve. Deborah was saying so the other 
day ; she is less quiet, and turns her head from side to 
side as though she were looking for something, and she 
takes her food better from you. ’ ’ Then the pale ghost 
of a smile crossed Stephen’s face ; it was the truth and 
he knew it. 

These terrible weeks were never effaced from 
Stephen’s memory. Not even to Hannah could he 
bring himself to speak of that time. He was in the 
Valley of the Shadow of Death with his beloved, and 
behind him were the grisly footsteps of the foul fiend 
Despair. 

“ If Nannie dies, or if her baby dies, I shall be their 
murderer,” was his one recurring thought, and even 
the Vicar and the little Sister when they came to the 
cottage with kindly attempts at comfort felt the words 
die upon their tongue when they looked at Stephen 
Markham’s face. 

“We must leave him in better hands than ours,” the 
Vicar said one day to the little Sister. “ No words of 
ours can reach him in that charnel house where he has 
entrenched himself. If things do not go well with 
Hannah I will not answer for his reason. No man can 
lead the life he has led for these weeks with impunity. 
Sleep taken by snatches, hasty meals, and a never- 
ending remorse for that night’s cruelty. Ah ! if other 
men would take warning,” continued Mr. Wentworth, 
solemnly, for he thought it was the drink far more than 
jealousy and angry passions that had made Stephen 
Markham so cruel to his young wife. 


HOW THE DEVIL WAS CAST OUT 221 


‘ ‘ Deb thinks he did not understand, ’ ’ faltered the 
little Sister ; and then they walked on silently and 
sadly ; for the Vicar’s heart felt heavy with reflected 
pain. No one knew better than he did how the threat- 
ened loss of some loved woman can sap a man’s life and 
drain it of all hope and sweetness. 

Those were weary days to Deborah. No one knew 
how her heart failed her as she had stood by the bed 
listening to Hannah’s confused talk. 

“ Is Steeve angered still?” she would ask over and 
over again. ‘‘Will he never forgive his poor little 
Nannie?” and now and then there would be a shudder- 
ing allusion to the long pond. “Jem did it, and Steeve 
is bound to do it,” and then as Stephen bent over her 
and prayed her for God’s sake to hush, she would pat 
his cheek with her feeble hand. “ Never mind, Steeve, 
I love you,” she would say ; but alas ! the next moment 
she would fail to recognise him. 

“ Well, my man, cheer up, we shall pull her through, 
please God, ’ ’ observed the doctor, one day ; but there 
was no answering gleam in Stephen’s sunken eyes. 

“You will do your best, doctor, no doubt,” here- 
turned, in a subdued voice. ‘ ‘ But we can’ t expect you 
to work miracles ; if Hannah lives, her child will not,” 
but to this the doctor made no answer ; perhaps in his 
secret heart he thought it best that Stephen should not 
be too sanguine. After that night’s shock and the fever 
it would be a pretty close shave, so he said no more of 
his hopes, not even to Deborah or Nance Reed, though 
they gave him appealing looks as though asking for 
comfort. 

At last there came a day when Stephen was almost 
forced out of his wife’s room — ^when, dazed and be- 


222 ORDEAL OF HANNAH MARKHAM 


wilder ed for want of sleep, he sat on the little stool in 
the porch, close under the tiny window where Deborah’s 
wrinkled hand had brought comfort to Hannah ; and 
after a time the Vicar, passing by the cottage, caught 
sight of him and sat beside him for a while without 
speaking, 

By and by, Stephen’s face grew so ghastly that Mr. 
Wentworth went into the cottage and poured out a 
glass of the wine that had been sent down from Kings- 
dene for Hannah’s use, and, standing beside him, put 
it to his lips, “ My poor fellow, you are faint,” he said ; 
“drink this,” but when Stephen had emptied the glass 
he looked at the Vicar strangely. 

“Yes, I am faint,” he moaned, “but it is with the 
thought of her peril. Oh, Mr. Wentworth, sir ! you 
must bear with me, for I am fairly drunk with misery ; 
it makes me an unbeliever to think my little Nannie 
must go down again to the gates of death, and me, 
who deserved it most, left behind.” Then the Vicar 
took the clammy, nerveless hand in his and held it in 
his warm grip. 

“Stephen, my poor fellow,” he exclaimed, gently, 
“ I can understand how it tries a man’s faith ; but don’t 
you think for a moment that Hannah has to bear her 
trouble alone. I have always thought,” continued the 
Vicar, dreamily, “that some special angel, one more 
merciful and loving than all his fellows, abides with 
women at such times, in the bosom of His mercy, yes, 
that is where He is hiding her. Patience and prayer, 
that is your part and mine,” and then he went on his 
way. 

* ‘ Markham, my good fellow, where have you hidden 
yourself ?’ ’ observed a brisk voice. ‘ ‘ Do you know, I 


HOW THE DEVIL WAS CAST OUT 223 

have good news for you. Hannah has a daughter ; 
the child is small but likely to live, and the mother is 
doing well ; tut ! — nonsense — you must not give way, 
man,” but he spoke to deaf ears, for the first and last 
time in his life, Stephen Markham fell down in a dead 
faint. ‘ ‘ Poor chap, one can hardly wonder at it, ’ ’ 
thought the doctor, ‘ ‘ after all he has been through — 
and it was a near shave too — at one time I thought it 
would be all up with the child. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Why does not Steeve come and see baby ?’ ’ asked 
Hannah languidly of her mother before many hours 
had passed. 

Nance Reed hesitated and equivocated, for how 
could they tell the child in her weak state that Stephen 
was so spent with all the misery and fatigue that he had 
no strength to drag himself up the stairs. 

“ Is Steeve ill?” continued Hannah, anxiously ; then 
Deborah came to Nance’s help. 

“ No, my dearie, Steeve is too joyful to ail anything,” 
she returned, mendaciously. ‘ ‘ He is just beside him- 
self with happiness, but the doctor has given strict 
orders that no one comes up these stairs but your 
mother and me, so Steeve, poor fellow, is forced to 
submit. ’ * 

‘ ‘ Then give him my love, my dear love, and tell him 
how sweet baby is,” pleaded Hannah, much disap- 
pointed ; and this message was faithfully delivered to 
poor Stephen as he lay on the little couch in Nannie’s 
parlour, white as death, with the little Sister beside 
him. More than once he had tried to rise, but his 
knees had given way beneath him ; but when Dr. 
Hazlitt came again he very soon took things into his 
own hands. 


224 ORDEAL OF HANNAH MARKHAM 

“ He must have a good night’s sleep before he stirs 
from that couch, ’ ’ he said, decisively. ‘ ‘ I am going to 
give him a sleeping draught. Miss Merrick, and you 
must make him swallow it ; no, there is no need for 
you to stop, there is little fear that he will wake until 
morning, and Nance Reed will look after him,” and 
then they covered him up and put pillows under his 
weary head, and before long the sedative took effect. 
And the next day the doctor helped him up the stairs 
and left him at the door of Hannah’s room. “Ten 
minutes, not a second more, ’ ’ he said, warningly. 

When Stephen fell on his knees beside the bed, 
Hannah looked at him anxiously, ‘ ‘ Oh, Steeve, how 
white you look, and how ill !’ ’ but he would not let her 
finish that sentence. 

“ I was fair staggered with happiness,” he said, sim- 
ply. ‘ ‘ Oh, my little Nannie, all these weeks I have 
been in hell for your sake, but the good Lord has been 
merciful to us. Nay, is this the babe?” and Stephen’s 
arms trembled with emotion as Nance, with tears run- 
ning down her comely face, laid the wee creature in 
them. 

“She is like you, Steeve,” cried Hannah, eagerly. 

‘ ‘ Her eyes are dark and her hair is dark too ; is she 
not sweet, my lammie?” Then one of Stephen’s won- 
derful smiles irradiated his face ; never in his life had 
he seen any babe so small, and to him the tiny face was 
almost grotesque in its ugliness, but Nannie loved her 
already, and he must open his heart to her too. 

“She is small,” continued Hannah, a little jealously, 
as though she read his thoughts ; ‘ ‘ but mother says 
she will be a fine strapping wench some day.” 

“Ay, that I did,” echoed Nance, “and Nannie was 


HOW THE DEVIL WAS CAST OUT 225 

a little ’un herself. I was fairly shamed when I first 
put her in her father’s arms.” 

“But I could not be shamed of my sweet baby,” 
returned the young mother, proudly ; ‘ ‘ oh, look, Steeve, 
her eyes are open now.” 

Stephen could not answer, his heart was too full ; 
but as he stooped over his wife, his tears wetted her 
face. * ‘ God bless thee and the babe, too, and make 
me worthy of your love. ’ ’ And that day the devil was 
cast out of Stephen Markham’s heart and troubled him 
no more. 


15 

















VI 

THE TIN SHANTY 


227 



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I 


A RED TAM-O^SHANTER 

One fine midsummer morning Sandilands was elec- 
trified by the news that the Tin Shanty had found an 
owner. 

It was Miss Batesby who brought the intelligence to 
Kingsdene, and though she was no favourite there, and 
Madam had always kept her at arm’s length — speaking 
of her severely as a meddlesome, gossiping, old maid, 
with a tiresome habit of prying into her neighbours’ 
business — yet, on this occasion, she received her civilly, 
and even pressed her to stay and rest a little after toil- 
ing up the hill in the sunshine. 

Miss Batesby had scant information to impart, but she 
spread it out thinly and made it last a long time. 

She had seen the door of the Tin Shanty standing 
open the previous day, and Susan Perks with her pail 
and scrubbing-brush hard at work scouring the floors, 
so she had just stepped up to question her. 

Mrs. Perks had told her that a gentleman and his 
sister had taken the cottage for a year. They were 
from London, she believed, and their name was Ingram; 
a van-load of furniture was to come down the next day, 
and she had had orders from Mr. Roper, the agent, to 
clean up the place a bit. No one had lived in it for the 
last year and a half, since Joshua Armstrong had left, 
and the rooms were damp and fusty from disuse. Her 

229 


230 


THE TIN SHANTY 


girl, Chatty, was coming down to help presently, and 
then Susan went on with her scrubbing. The Tin 
Shanty, as it was always called, was a ramshackle, non- 
descript sort of cottage, standing at the end of the val- 
ley. A small iron room built in the garden for purposes 
of photography had given it the name. The iron roof 
was distinctly visible from the inn, but the cottage itself 
was hidden from sight, and the fir woods shut it in. It 
was almost as retired as a hermitage, and its dulness and 
the close neighbourhood of the firs made it a most un- 
desirable abode in most people’s eyes. 

The valley itself was a very pleasant place. The 
houses were prettily built, and the gardens were gay 
with flowers. A broad grassy road separated them from 
the fir woods opposite, some of the houses had a charm- 
ing peep of the church and the inn. 

The largest house belonged to Colonel Chambers, 
but he and his wife were seldom at Sandilands, though 
the children, nurses, and governess spent the greater 
part of the spring and summer there, and their parents 
paid them flying visits at intervals. The governess, 
Miss Merriman, was a severe-looking young woman in 
spectacles, but the children seemed fond of her, to 
judge by the way they all crowded round her, or ran to 
the gate to meet her on her return from weekday ser- 
vice. Next to Silverdale, as Colonel Chambers’s house 
was called, came the Hollies, where the Duncans lived. 
The Duncans were a comfortable old couple ; their 
children were all married and settied in life, but relays 
of grandchildren were to be found all the summer play- 
ing in the garden of the Hollies, or helping grandfather 
with his gardening, while the elder ones gathered rose- 
leaves for their grandmother’s great blue jars of pot- 


A RED TAM-O’-SHANTER 


231 

pourri, or trotted beside her as she visited kitchen, 
pantry, and store closet. 

Next to the Hollies came Red Brae, where the 
three Misses Willoughby had lived from time im- 
memorial. The Misses Willoughby were growing 
old ; Miss Sabina, the eldest, was stout and asthmatic, 
and kept to the house all the winter. It was she who 
managed the Book Society, and ordered all the new 
books from Mudie. Sandilands highly respected Miss 
Sabina, and it was even whispered that earlier in life 
she had once contributed to a magazine under a nom 
de plume. The second sister. Miss Mattie, was an 
energetic person, and took entire control of the house- 
hold. She and Miss Batesby were always at daggers’ 
drawn, and could scarcely speak civilly to each other 
at the district visitors’ meeting. The third sister. Miss 
Leonora, was much younger, and still retained some 
claim to good looks. She played the organ and 
helped the Vicar train the choir, and she and Clare 
Merrick soon became warm friends, for, in spite of a 
few affectations and a slight remnant of girlishness. 
Miss Leonora Duncan was a kind-hearted and culti- 
vated woman. 

Next to Red Brae came Ferndale, where the Powers 
lived, a large family of untidy, noisy young people. 
Mrs. Power was a widow, and her one object in life 
was to make ends meet. In this fruitless effort she was 
assisted by her eldest daughter, a worn, delicate-looking 
girl, who taught her young brothers and sisters, and 
slaved in their service from morning to night. Margaret 
Power was also a great favourite with the little Sister. 

The remaining two or three houses were tenanted 
by retired tradespeople, and then came Miss Batesby’ s 


232 


THE TIN SHANTY 


modest residence, some broken grass land adjoined 
her cottage ; and next the dark fir woods which ter- 
minated the Happy Valley. 

Miss Batesby often wondered why the Tin Shanty 
was built so much higher on the hill — quite a steep 
little winding path led up to it. There was a mere 
strip of garden ground in front with the ugly little 
iron room, but behind the cottage there was nothing 
but bracken and furze bushes, and then the dark ter- 
races of firs climbing up the hill. “It is the sort of 
view to drive any one melancholy mad in winter,” 
Miss Batesby would say ; ‘ ‘ from the parlour windows 
there is not even a curl of smoke to be seen — nothing 
but black firs back and front and a few furze bushes — 
no wonder Mr. Roper lets it so cheaply. ’ ’ 

Miss Batesby spent the greater part of the next day 
roaming in the fir woods, but she could see little ex- 
cept the top of the van. Only once she saw a tall 
figure in a curious red headgear come out of the back- 
door and stand with shaded eyes looking up the hill, 
but before Miss Batesby could properly focus her, she 
had gone indoors again. 

Miss Batesby would have gone home quite discour- 
aged, only, happily, she met Chatty going down to 
Crampton’s for some butter and eggs, and being 
young and impressionable, she was like wax in Miss 
Batesby’ s hands. 

“Was that tall lady Miss Ingram?” — “Oh, laws, 
yes, she had heard her mother call her Miss Ingram 
half a dozen times ; she was the tallest and the funniest 
lady she had ever seen, and she laughed ! Oh, Chatty 
had never heard any one laugh like that ; it kind of 
made you laugh too.” 


A RED TAM-O’-SHANTER 


233 


Cross-examined by Miss Batesby : “She knew 
nothing about Mr. Ingram. There was no gentleman 
there at all, and Miss Ingram was not going to sleep 
there ; she heard her say that she was going back to 
London. No, she did not know when she was coming 
down again, but they were to light fires and get some 
victuals in by the evening. Miss Ingram wants me to 
live with them, she says I am quite old enough to go 
to service now ’ and Chatty looked at Miss Batesby 
with conscious pride. 

The next morning, while Mrs. Perks and Chatty 
were busily engaged emptying a crate of china in the 
tiny kitchen. Miss Batesby coolly proceeded to make a 
tour of inspection through the cottage. 

The furniture was of the simplest description ; 
wicker-work chairs and couch in the sitting-room, 
old-fashioned mahogany in the small dining-room. 
“Second-hand — bought probably at some sale,” 
thought Miss Batesby, contemptuously, and then she 
glanced curiously at a violin and mandoline case that 
looked sufficiently solid and handsome. There was a 
big case of books, too, and several pictures with their 
face turned to the wall. Upstairs the arrangements 
were even more simple — small iron bedsteads, and the 
other furniture of stained wood. In one room there 
was an immense sponge bath and some dumb-bells, 
over which Miss Batesby stood and pondered. Then 
she went down and questioned Chatty, who was now 
blackleading the kitchen stove. 

“Oh, laws, yes, the bath was for Mr. Ingram. Miss 
Ingram had said that her brother could not live with- 
out his tub. Tom Flynn had already been engaged, at 
eighteen pence a week, to bring up water from the 


234 


THE TIN SHANTY 


pump, down by the inn, early every morning.” Miss 
Batesby evidently thought this news worth retailing, 
for she actually went to Kingsdene a second time ; and 
she was secretly gratified when Mrs. Compton put 
down her work as she listened. 

” Dear me ! they must be gentle people,” she said 
half to herself and half to Penelope ; for, being a 
woman of the world, she knew that cleanliness often 
came before godliness in aristocratic circles, and there 
was something in the big sponge bath that appealed 
forcibly to her imagination ; but Pen, who was a little 
out of her bearings, looked rather perplexed at this. 

‘ ‘ They must be tidy, respectable people, ’ ’ she said, 
in her gentle serious way ; ‘ ‘ but the Tin Shanty is a 
poor place, the ceilings are so low and the windows 

only half open, and there is no garden to speak of ’ * 

and then she corrected herself laboriously ; ” I mean 
there is no garden that can be called one, ’ ’ for Pen was 
trying to break herself of slipshod ungrammatical 
English, and in consequence she was a little pedantic at 
times. But Felix had not the heart to tell her so ; her 
old-fashioned ways, her unconscious pedantry, were all 
very sweet to him. Mrs. Compton began to feel curi- 
ous about the newcomers, but, at the same time, she 
wanted Jack to give them a clear berth until she had 
found out more about them. Jack was so impulsive 
and incautious — he was ready to be hail-fellow-well-met 
with any one — before many days were over he might 
have plunged into intimacy with the newcomers. 
” Oh ! Jack, dear — do be careful,” she said more than 
once ; ” it is so much safer to look before you leap. 
How do we know the Ingrams are people we should 
care to visit ? True, Mr. Wentworth said just now that 


A RED TAM-O’-SHANTER 


235 


it was a good name, but many good old families have 
unworthy members belonging to them — stray black 
sheep — and then, only extreme poverty could induce 
them to put up with the Tin Shanty.” 

“Oh, I don’t know, mater,” returned Jack, with a 
slight shrug ; ” the Tin Shanty is not so bad — it always 
reminds me of our diggings in Colorado, when Miles 
and I chummed for a month. I could understand any 
fellow taking a fancy to it — it is so quiet, none of the 
valley houses overlook it : perhaps Ingram is a photog- 
rapher or an artist. Oh, it is all right, you may de- 
pend on it,” and Jack marched off whistling with 
‘ ‘ Scamp’ ’ at his heels. 

At this time the young Squire of Sandilands was a 
little restless and unhappy. In spite of his sweet, peace- 
loving nature, his mother’s despotic yoke pressed 
heavily on him ; his eighteen months of freedom, of 
buoyant movement and activity, made the old thraldom 
still more irksome. Why had his mother not learnt 
wisdom by this time ? Why was a clever woman, for 
she was a clever woman, so dense as to believe she 
could fit a round thing comfortably into a square hole ? 
Why did she not give up all her useless efforts and put 
up with him as he was ? Jack, who was by no means 
perfect, grew a little sulky at last under his mother’s 
endless strictures. Once or twice he had answered her 
so curtly that Madam had looked at him in grieved 
displeasure. 

“You need not be so short with me. Jack,” she had 
said ; “ I am only speaking for your good. ’ ’ And 

when Jack saw the tears .in her eyes, he told himself 
angrily that he was a brute. 

If only Mrs. Compton had guessed how her smooth, 


236 


THE TIN SHANTY 


sarcastic speeches galled Jack’s sensibilities ; but with 
all her cleverness she was a little dense, and dearly as 
she loved Jack she still persisted in rubbing him up the 
wrong way. “ If I could only do one thing to please 
her,” Jack would say to himself as he walked down to 
the Farm, and in spite of his want of imagination he 
would picture to himself some stirring deed that should 
make his mother’s eyes beam softly with admiration. 

But, alas ! Sandilands offered no scope for heroism. 
There were no runaway horses to arrest, and no fair 
lady dragging with her foot in the stirrup. There was 
no possible encounter with a mad dog or an infuriated 
bull ; dogs never went mad in Sandilands, and bulls 
were in safe pasturage. No burglars or poachers ever 
showed their evil faces ; in fact, life was quiet and un- 
eventful in the Happy Valley. 

Jack, who was not without some sense of humour, 
wondered how it would be if, instead of some doughty 
deed of valour, he were to be guilty of some heinous 
and irrevocable delinquency ; some deviation from 
Compton rectitude ; some lapse or indiscretion in 
which he would be taken redhanded, and for which 
there could be no redress ! Already Mrs. Compton 
had gently hinted at certain endowments that would 
render a daughter-in-law acceptable. Indeed, Jack re- 
called with dreary amusement a short lecture that she 
had once delivered as they walked to and fro on the 
terrace. 

“Of course you must marry. Jack,” she had said in 
a softer tone than usual ; ‘ ‘ and I mean to be very fond 
of your wife. There is no need for her to be an heir- 
ess,” she continued; “you have plenty of money, 
unless you think of going into Parliament,” here there 


A RED TAM-O’-SHANTER 


237 


was a brisk negative on Jack’s part. “ Oh, I know,” 
continued Mrs. Compton, dryly, “that there is little 
hope of drawing you from your bucolic occupation — 
prize oxen and fat sheep are more to your taste than 
the interests of your country. ’ ’ 

“My dear mother,” protested Jack; but Mrs. 
Compton only shrugged her shoulders impatiently. 

“Oh, there is no need to discuss all that,” she went 
on ; “I was only speaking of your future wife. ’ ’ Jack 
blushed a little in the darkness as his mother said this. 

‘ ‘ My dear boy, I want you to be careful of one thing, 
riches are not indispensable, but she must be a gentle- 
woman and belong to a good family ; and. Jack, though 
beauty is deceitful and favour vain, I hope she will be 
handsome.” And as Jack said amen to this with un- 
usual fervency, Mrs. Compton for once felt they were 
of one mind. 

Jack listened dutifully when his mother begged him 
to give the Tin Shanty a wide berth, but he bound him- 
self by no promise. It had grown to be a habit with 
him to listen in silence, and then perhaps go out and do 
the very thing that Mrs. Compton had begged him not 
to do. Madam called it obstinacy and self-will, but 
Jack merely regarded it as manly independence. 

He was excessively curious about the new owners of 
the Tin Shanty, and had already made up his mind to 
take his own observations. So one afternoon, about a 
week after Miss Batesby’s second visit to Kingsdene, 
he purposely took the path through the fir woods that 
would bring him out at the back of the cottage. He 
had scarcely reached his vantage ground before the 
sound of a female voice made him ‘ ‘ lie low, ’ ’ in other 
words, he dropped behind a furze-bush, and lying down 


238 


THE TIN SHANTY 


full length on the bracken, propped himself on his 
elbows and reconnoitred the position. He was on the 
verge of the wood, and only furze and bracken clothed 
the remainder of the hill ; a small space of level ground 
just above the Tin Shanty made an excellent drying- 
ground, here some lines had been fixed, and a tall girl 
in a blue serge dress and a red Tam-o’-Shanter cap — 
perched rather knowingly on her brown hair — was 
busily pegging some flapping sheets on the lines, 
while Chatty watched her respectfully. Her back was 
towards Jack, nevertheless he regarded her with amaze- 
ment. She was the tallest girl he had ever seen in his 
life ; she must have been little short of six feet, but her 
figure was so supple and beautiful, and her movements 
were so full of life and unconscious grace, that he 
watched her with a feeling of undefinable pleasure. 
She was evidently new to the work and a little awkward 
at it, and every now and then a peg slipped, and then 
Chatty groaned and her mistress laughed, for the heavy 
sheet flapped earthward again. 

“Oh, Chatty, I do wish you were a little taller,” 
observed the owner of the Tam-o’-Shanter presently, 
when she had become a little breathless with her 
labours ; “pegging wet sheets is not quite in my line. 
There, it has flapped again, the tiresome thing,” and 
here there was another silvery laugh ; “but I won’t be 
beaten — no, I won’ t ; go and fetch me a kitchen chair, 
Chatty.” But here Jack could “lie low” no longer. 

‘ ‘ Will you allow me to help you ?’ ’ he said ; but as 
the young lady started at the sound of a strange voice 
and turned around. Jack had a shock that almost took 
his breath away ; for, in spite of her beautiful figure 
and brown hair and pleasant voice. Miss Ingram was 


A RED TAM-O’-SHANTER 


239 


decidedly plain — nay, more, she was positively ugly, 
with that frank decided ugliness that at first sight offers 
no redeeming points. 

Jack could have overlooked the wide mouth and 
clumsy, unfinished nose, but the small greenish-blue 
eyes and the sandy, ill-defined eyebrows were sore 
defects. Why had nature been so cruelly hard to any 
woman by giving her the figure of an angel, if angels 
have figures, and then blurring her handiwork in this 
fashion? There was something grotesque in Miss 
Ingram’s ugliness, and though when she laughed she 
showed a row of pearly white teeth that would have 
filled any dentist with admiration. Jack could only 
notice how her eyes crinkled up and almost disap- 
peared. Yes, he had had a shock, but, all the same, 
he would give her the help she needed ; but Miss Ingram 
only laughed in an easy, unembarrassed fashion as he 
took the peg from her hand, and began fixing it in a 
thoroughly workman-like manner. 

“You ought to do it so,” he said, “and so; now 
let me put up that last sheet for you.” 

‘ ‘ I did not know there were such kind neighbours in 
Sandilands,” observed Miss Ingram ; and then as Jack 
drove in another peg he thought how delightful it would 
be to listen to Miss Ingram’s voice if he could only 

shut his eyes. ‘ ‘ Thank you so much ’ ’ and then 

she hesitated, and the reason of her unfinished sen- 
tence was so obvious that Jack hastened to introduce 
himself. 

“ My name is John Compton, and I live at Kings- 
dene, over there, ’ ’ pointing to the grand-looking house 
with its many windows shining in the afternoon sun. 

“Oh, you are the Squire, are you?” and Miss 


240 


THE TIN SHANTY 


Ingram looked at him a little curiously. ‘ ‘ I know — 
Mr. Wentworth was talking about you yesterday — ^you 
are an excellent farmer, but he never told us you were 
able to peg sheets. ’ ’ 

“No, it does not do to praise people too much,” re- 
turned Jack, modestly, ‘ ‘ one must keep something in 
reserve. I learnt this useful accomplishment when I 
was a youngster. I used to help old Mrs. Bennet at the 
Grey Cottage on washing days ; it was one of my great- 
est treats, especially when we made toffee afterwards. 
Have you a weakness for toffee. Miss Ingram ?’ ’ 

“Well, no,” she returned, frankly; “but I shall 
shock you dreadfully if I own that, as a child, I loved 
those great brown sticky brandy balls ; it was a vulgar 
plebeian taste, but when I had one of them in my mouth 
I felt life was just the essence of sweetness, ’ ' and here 
she pushed her red Tam-o’ -Shanter a little to one side. 

‘ ‘ I am not sure that I should not enjoy a brandy ball 
now. ’ ’ 

“There are splendid ones at Crampton’s,” returned 
Jack, eagerly ; he began to find Miss Ingram amusing. 
She was decidedly original and out of the common. 

“Are there indeed? well, as the clothes-basket is 
empty, we may as well go round to the front of the 
house. Should you like me to introduce you to my 
brother, Mr. Compton ? he is painting a little below the 
cottage. ’ ’ As she said this. Miss Ingram took up one 
end of the basket while Jack grasped the other, and 
then they gravely carried it in. If only Madam could 
have seen that sight. 

‘ ‘ Is your brother an artist ?’ ’ asked Jack, when they 
had reached the little porch. 

“Well, he thinks himself one, and I hope you will 


A RED TAM-O’-SHANTER 


241 


not undeceive him. To be frank with you, Mr. Comp- 
ton, my brother is an idealist, and he idealises even his 
own work ; you have no idea how happy it makes him. 
I advise you to try his receipt if you ever feel low ; 
nothing is so cheerful as to carry your own halo about 
with you,” and then they turned a corner leading to a 
small open glade ; and there Jack saw a young man in 
an old brown velveteen coat and a. wide brimmed felt 
hat, rather peaked in the middle, painting under the 
shade of an immense white umbrella. 

“ I have brought you a visitor, Moritz,” observed his 
sister in her cheery voice. ‘ ‘ Mr. Compton, this is my 
brother,” and then the two young men shook hands — 
the artist with effusion, and Jack cordially but tenta- 
tively. 

Moritz Ingram was almost as surprising as his sister. 
At first sight no one would have guessed that they be- 
longed to each other. He was a small dark man some- 
what foreign in his appearance, his skin was swarthy, 
and he had a black moustache, turned up and twisted 
in Louis Napoleon fashion, and his hair would have 
done credit to Pentonville or Portland, but he had 
bright clear eyes and he spoke like a cultured man. 

‘ ‘ Sandilands is a model village, ’ ’ he said, looking a 
little absently but fondly at a small smudgy sketch on 
his easel. ‘‘We have only been a week here to-day — 
it is a week, is it not, Gwen ? — and actually the Vicar 
has called, and now the Squire ; two whole and distin- 
guished visitors in one week, ’ ’ and Mr. Ingram sighed 
as though the magnitude of his blessings oppressed 
him. 

“Three visitors, Moritz ; you must not forget Miss 
Batesby, our kind next-door neighbour.” Jack looked 
16 


242 


THE TIN SHANTY 


up sharply; was there a sarcastic accent in Miss Ingram’s 
charming voice ? 

*‘Oh, to be sure, but then it is three or four days 
since that good lady honoured us with a visit. By the 
bye, Gwen, you must return that call, England and 
Sandilands expect every one to do their duty. It is 
an odd thing, Mr. Compton, but every village has its 
Miss Batesby ; it is a genus that flourishes everywhere. 
I have met a dozen Miss Batesbys’ already, though 
they call themselves by other names, but they are all 
industrious and painstaking like our neighbour on the 
green. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Poor Miss Batesby, he teased her unmercifully. I 
told you, Mr. Compton, that my brother was an ideal- 
ist ; if visitors do not please him he weaves a perfect 
web of invention to keep them off the premises ; poor 
little woman, I had to go to the rescue at last, she 
looked as bewildered as though she did not know 
whether she was standing on her head or her heels. ’ ’ 

“ Now, Gwen, no exaggeration. I cannot have Mr. 
Compton prejudiced against me just as I hoped I was 
making a favourable impression on him — so much de- 
pends on first impressions. As I saw Miss Batesby 
was of an inquiring turn of mind, I only volunteered a 
little information. I begged her, for my sister’s sake, 
not to ask why my hair resembled a scrubbing brush, 
and I gently intimated, very gently, that certain brain 
diseases required cooling and stringent applications. 
I could see she was impressed, painfully so,” and 
here Mr. Ingram heaved a deep sigh, and commenced 
daubing a fresh smudge of indigo blue across the 
canvas. 

“Mr. Compton, don’t listen to him,” returned Miss 


A RED TAM-O’-SHANTER 


243 


Ingram ; “he behaved shamefully, he frightened the 
poor little woman nearly out of her senses. I really 
think that she went away with the belief that Moritz 
had just come out of Hanwell. If he had kept to brain 
diseases it would not have mattered so much, but he 
got on the subject of criminal instincts, and actually 
asked her if she had ever felt suddenly as though a 
bodkin or a blunt pair of scissors were dangerous 
weapons. ‘ A blunt instrument in a desperate hand 
can do a lot of damage,’ those were his very words, 
and I was not at all surprised when she said very hur- 
riedly that she must go. ’ ’ 

Jack threw back his head with one of his boyish 
laughs, and Miss Ingram joined him ; but the artist 
only regarded them mournfully and shook his head. 

“Young, very young,’’ he murmured. “ Gwendo- 
line, my child, when you have finished your outburst of 
unseemly merriment, will you kindly instruct the infant 
to have tea in the front garden ?’ ’ and then, as his sister 
nodded and vanished, Mr. Ingram dropped his whimi- 
sical, melodramatic manner and began talking in a sen- 
sible way. 

Never had Jack spent a pleasanter afternoon. When 
Miss Ingram summoned them to tea they found her 
presiding over a little Japanese tea-table in the porch. 
Two wicker chairs, softly cushioned, were on the tiny 
level strip of green that comprised the front garden, 
and below them lay the valley, and opposite the fir-clad 
hill with white paths winding in all directions. 

For once Jack felt perfectly in his element, and before 
he took his leave he had made up his mind that the 
Ingrams were congenial spirits. 

They were evidently well-bred people ; there was an 


244 


THE TIN SHANTY 


unmistakable air of ease and cultivation about them, 
and though* they did not indulge Jack with any auto- 
biographical sketches, and never even hinted at their 
reason for settling down in Sandilands, he felt, instinc- 
tively, that they were to be trusted. 

The conversation turned chiefly on Japan. Jack 
learnt to his surprise that both the brother and sister 
had been there ; and Mr. Ingram grew quite excited in 
his praise of a certain dark-eyed Musume at a tea-house 
in Tokio. 

‘ ‘ She was in a dove-coloured silk kimono, and wore 
a pale pink obi, do you remember, Gwen?” and Mr. 
Ingram’s eyes almost closed with rapture ; “she was a 
perfect darling. I lost my heart to her, only Gwendo- 
line objected to mixed marriages and a Japanese sister- 
in-law, and hurried me away ; and then we made 
straight tracks for England, and hard work and re- 
trenchment, and the bitter bread and unalloyed water 
of indigence became the orders of the day,” and here 
Mr. Ingram helped himself to another slice of brown 
bread covered thickly with clotted cream — a Somerset 
recipe for afternoon tea, as Gwendoline informed their 
visitor. ^ 

And then when Jack modestly told them that he had 
just been round the world, they put him through his 
paces, and absolutely refused to talk more of them- 
selves. Jack had not half exhausted his Colorado 
experiences, when he discovered how late it was, and 
took his leave in a hurry. 

“You must come again and finish your Ranche 
stories,” observed Mr. Ingram in friendly fashion, as 
they stood together on the brow of the hill; “and 
Gwendoline must play her mandoline. We are rather 


A RED TAM-O’-SHANTER 


245 


musical people, Compton. The violin is my instrument 
— tell it not in Gath, breathe it not in Miss Batesby’s 
ear. I have a Stradivarius dearer to me than wife or 
child, or even a Musume in a pink obi. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Moritz, Mr. Compton is really in a hurry. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Thank you. Miss Ingram, you are very good to 
take my part. It is almost as kind to speed the part- 
ing guest as to welcome him,” and then Jack coloured 
and stammered a little. ‘ ‘ I have had an awfully jolly 
afternoon, and I will certainly come again and bring 
my mother,” and then he set off at full speed for 
Kingsdene. 


II 


AN UGLY HEROINE 

When Jack returned from the Tin Shanty, he found 
his mother in one of her difficult moods. Her own 
centre of gravity being disturbed, she was looking out 
on every side for a possible or impossible cataclysm. 

Humanity is sadly puerile at times. A man with 
dyspepsia regards his perfectly healthy comrade with 
feelings that border on offence. Such splendid and 
lavish well-being seems almost immoral to him. 

Under some aspects of affliction it is astonishing that 
the grass continues green ; and yet if nature pulled 
down her sable curtain every time some son of Adam 
yielded up his breath, the world would be veiled in 
utter darkness more terrible than the Egyptian one of 
old. But nature is a truer comforter, and never puts 
off her girdle of hope. Tears flow, hearts break, worn- 
out bodies lie in their graves, yet flowers bloom, and 
trees put forth their tender leafage spring after spring, 
and the blue arc of heaven is as clear and cloudless over 
our heads, and still the blessed sun shines with equal 
benediction on the evil and the good. 

When Jack entered his mother’s dressing-room with 
a radiant face, brimful of his afternoon’s adventures, 
Mrs. Compton received him rather coldly. Penelope 
had been spending the day at Brentwood, and she was 
246 


AN UGLY HEROINE 


247 


tired of her loneliness. As Jack went on with his 
story her countenance expressed decided disapproba- 
tion. He had done the very thing she had dreaded, 
and had made Jriends with the newcomers ; but what 
was the use of her saying anything ? Jack was his own 
master, and she had little or no influence with him. 
His happiness, his pursuits, were always apart from her, 
and, his friends were not congenial to her. She cut him 
short presently by telling him that the dressing-bell had 
rung, and he marched off in rather a huff, and it was 
an uncomfortable evening. Jack, who resented his 
mother’s displeased silence, made no special effort to 
propitiate her, and went off early to smoke his pipe at 
the lodge. 

But the next day the horizon cleared unexpectedly. 
A sad wakeful night had shown the widow her mistake, 
and with one of her generous impulses, she told Jack 
that she was ready to call with him at the Tin Shanty 
whenever he liked. “ I will not promise to like your 
friends,” she finished, more severely, “but at least I 
will do my duty to my neighbours.” But though Jack 
availed himself of his mother’s magnanimity, it may be 
doubted if he enjoyed his second visit. 

As he opened the little gate, he was dismayed to see 
Miss Ingram shelling peas in the porch — a huge yellow 
basin stood beside her — and she wore a coarse bib 
apron over her serge dress ; her red Tam-o’-Shanter 
was somewhat askew, and Jack, looking through his 
mother’s spectacles, thought that she was even plainer 
than ever. He did not in the least understand why his 
mother grew so suddenly and aggressively cheerful. 
Her extreme civility struck him as almost artificial. In 
reality she was secretly rejoicing over Miss Ingram’s 


248 THE TIN SHANTY 

ugliness. ‘ ‘ That tall, gawky young woman would never 
attract Jack !” 

Happily unconscious of this unfavourable opinion, Miss 
Ingram received them with easy cordiality, and, taking 
off her apron, led the way into her parlour. 

The little room was so low and so full of furniture that 
Jack felt almost stifled, and he was thankful when Miss 
Ingram begged him to find her brother, as she was 
anxious to introduce him to Mrs. Compton. 

‘ ‘ She just ordered Jack off as though he were her 
lacquey, observed Madam afterwards to the little 
Sister. * ‘ I never saw a girl of her age with such 
cool assurance. She talked to me as though she were 
my equal in age. Really, the independence of the 
young generation is one of the sad features of the 
age. ’ ’ But the little Sister only smiled in answer ; 
when Madam was on her high horse she never argued 
with her. 

When Mr. Ingram made his appearance things were 
rather better. The infant, alias Chatty, brought in the 
tea-tray. But to Jack’s chagrin his mother took her 
leave almost immediately, and he was forced to accom- 
pany her. Mr. Ingram, talking garrulously, accom- 
panied them down the hill, but even to his dense 
masculine perception the visit had not been a success. 

* ‘ I wonder what Gwen thinks of that piece of magnifi- 
cence in a French bonnet,” he said to himself cynically 
as he climbed up the hill. 

He found his sister shelling peas in the porch again, 
but there was something disconsolate in her attitude, 
and as she looked up at him he was surprised to see 
there were actually tears in her eyes. 

“ Holloa ! what is up, Gwen?” he said, sitting down 


AN UGLY HEROINE 


249 


beside her ; but though she tried to laugh it off, a big 
tear fell among the empty pods. 

Moritz took her by the shoulder and obliged her to 
face him. 

‘'Now, young woman,’’ he said, sternly, “no non- 
sense — the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the 
truth,’’ then Gwendoline gave another queer unsteady 
little laugh. 

“Oh, Moritz, I did not mean to be silly, and of 
course I am not really crying. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, of course not,’’ sarcastically, as splash number 
two occurred. 

“I must be an idealist, too, or I should not be so 
foolish,’’ she went on; “but, Moritz,’’ catching her 
breath, ‘ ‘ I cannot help it, it has been like that all my 
life. When I see a beautiful face I get quite sick with 
envy. From a mere toddling child I have so longed 
to be beautiful. Oh, don’t laugh ; you are a man and 
you do not understand. But do you remember dear 
mother repeating my baby speech : ‘ Oh, mamma, 
when I am an angel shall I have my beauty-face then ?’ 
and when she said, ‘Why, yes, Gwen, certainly,’ how 
I knelt down and prayed God to let me die that 
minute ?’ ’ 

Gwendoline spoke in a strangely impassioned voice, 
and her small greenish-blue eyes shone rather feverishly, 
but her brother only smiled and patted her as though 
she were an infant. 

‘ ‘ Good child ; she always speaks the truth. I 
guessed what had upset you. So you admired that 
stately dame, Gwen ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Mrs. Compton ; oh, yes. She is beautiful, and 
that dark Spanish style is so uncommon. It was a per- 


250 


THE TIN SHANTY 


feet feast only to look at her. I wonder why her 
son is so ordinary looking. He has a nice face, and 
his eyes are good, but he is not to be compared to his 
mother. ’ ’ 

“ Not in looks, perhaps. Poor Compton, I fancy he 
is rather to be pitied. He did not seem at his ease this 
afternoon, and really, Gwen, you took so little notice 
of him. You were so absorbed with his mother.” 

“I am sorry,” returned Gwendoline, in a subdued 
voice. ‘ ‘ Moritz, dear, you are very good not to laugh 
at me. You know they say every one has a bee in 
their bonnet, and I suppose I am crazy on this point ; 
but it is so dreadful to be ugly. There, I have said 
the word for once in my life — hopelessly, irredeemably 
ugly.” 

“Nonsense, Gwen!” and Moritz’s eyes were suspi- 
ciously moist. He adored his sister, and this womanly 
confession of weakness appealed to him strongly. “You 
are exaggerating things absurdly. You are no beauty, 
certainly ; but no one could love you and not love your 
face, too. ’ ’ But here Gwendoline, thoroughly ashamed 
of her outbreak, jumped up and refused to hear any 
more. 

“ I am sane now,” she said, in her odd, abrupt way, 
“and I shall take advantage of this lucid interval to 
pour out your tea. Stay where you are, Moritz, and 
the infant and I will cater for you.” And the next 
moment he could hear her high clear tones pealing 
through the little house : — “I care for nobody, no not 
I, and nobody cares for me.” 

“Poor Gwen,” mused Moritz, “how small and 
trivial and girlish it all sounded — that longing for a 
‘beauty-face;’ but there are elements of trag«dy in 


AN UGLY HEROINE 


251 

it, too.’* But all that evening his tenderness was al- 
most exasperating to Gwen. 

Meanwhile the mother and son had walked through 
the village in silence. But at last Jack turned restive, 
t “Well, mother, I should like to know your opinion 
of the Ingrams. I am afraid,” with a touch of impa- 
tience in his voice, “ that she is not quite your style.” 
Then Mrs. Compton gave a low scornful laugh that 
made him wince. 

‘ ‘ My style — no, indeed !’ ’ And again, ‘ ‘ That tall 
gawky young woman” came perilously near her lips, 
but the words were unuttered. Then as she saw the 
vexed expression on his face a kind, motherly look 
came into her beautiful eyes. 

‘ ‘ Dear old boy, please do not glower so. I wish I 
could please you by praising your new friends. But I 
cannot say with truth that I admire either Miss Ingram 
or her brother. I disliked his joking manner exces- 
sively, and then he was so jerky, and said such 
extraordinary things ; but I daresay he is clever and 

good-natured. As for Miss Ingram ” but here 

Mrs. Compton paused as she were afraid of committing 
herself. 

‘ ‘ Go on, mother ; you need not be afraid of hurting 
my feelings.” And Jack’s tone was so sarcastic that 
Mrs. Compton glanced at him uneasily. 

“Well, dear, it is not the poor girl’s fault that she is 
so plain, and of course she has a very nice figure, but 
such self-assurance is hardly good form in a young 
woman of her age ; and then the way she ordered you 
about. Oh, no, she is far too free and easy for my 
taste ; too downright and American altogether. ’ ’ But 
here Jack could bear no more. They were at the 


252 


THE TIN SHANTY 


Lodge by this time, and with a hasty excuse, that did 
not impose on his mother in the least, he turned back 
to the village, and left her to go up the drive alone. 

Jack felt unaccountably sore and angry, for, after all, 
the Ingrams were merely new acquaintances ; he had 
only spoken to them three times ; the second occa- 
sion being a short stroll with them in the fir woods 
after evening service. There was no special reason 
why he should take up cudgels in their defence. His 
mother had a right to her own opinions, and there was 
no need to quarrel with her because she thought Miss 
Ingram’s manners too free and easy. Nevertheless 
Jack felt distinctly aggrieved. 

‘ ‘ If there were only one thing on which we could 
agree,” he said to himself, bitterly ; “but it is no use, 
we shall never think alike on any subject. Things 
seem worse since I came back. I suppose as people 
grow older their prejudices grow stronger. Mother is 
a splendid hater. When she takes a dislike to a per- 
son she never seems to change her mind. She has set 
herself dead against the Ingrams, just because they live 
in the Tin Shanty, and no amount of argument will 
convince her that they are gentle people. ’ ’ 

From that day Jack never mentioned the Tin Shanty 
in his mother’s presence if he could help it. Never- 
theless she was perfectly well aware that few days passed 
without his dropping in for a chat with the artist and 
his sister. 

When the Ingrams called to return Mrs. Compton’s 
visit Jack was over at the Farm. His mother gave him 
a very concise and carefully worded account of the 
interview. 

“The Ingrams have been here. Jack,” she said Very 


AN UGLY HEROINE 


253 


quietly, as he came in looking hot and dusty from 
tramping the roads. “Please, do not let Ben Bolt 
jump on the sofa ; his paws are dirty. They were very 
sorry to miss you. I gave them tea, and they stayed 
quite a long time, and were very pleasant, and of course 
I showed them the view from the terrace. Miss Ingram 
seemed delighted with everything.” 

“I am very glad,” returned Jack, but he spoke 
without enthusiasm. The next minute he changed the 
subject by giving his mother a message from the Vicar. 
What an escape he had had ! How thankful he was 
that he had taken it into his head to walk over to the 
Farm ! He went off to dress for dinner, whistling for 
very lightness of heart. But Mrs. Compton sighed 
uncomfortably as the door closed after him. 

Jack was growing strangely silent and reticent, she 
thought ; day by day a barrier seemed slowly rising be- 
tween them. He would not discuss the Ingrams with 
her. He had never forgiven her criticism. In reality 
she was growing puzzled about them. After all Jack 
was right, and they were certainly gentle people. There 
were little tricks of speech in both the brother and sister 
that showed culture and knowledge of the world. And 
then, in spite of her shabby dress — for Gwendoline’s 
blue serge showed traces of wear and tear, and her 
sailor hat had a frayed blue ribbon round it — it was 
impossible to deny that Miss Ingram’s figure was 
beautiful, and her movements peculiarly graceful. She 
held herself well, and the carriage of her head was 
really fine. With careful dressing she would look al- 
most distinguished. Mrs. Compton could not deny 
that. 

Then a speech of Mr. Ingram’s had puzzled her. 


254 


THE TIN SHANTY 


He had been praising the room in his free and easy 
way, commenting on its good points with artistic free- 
dom ; and Mrs. Compton had been secretly gratified. 
Then he had turned to his sister. 

I don’t think the green drawing-room at Brentwood 
Hall is larger than this, Gwen, and it is certainly not so 
well proportioned. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Oh, do you know Brentwood Hall ?’ ’ she had 
asked, eagerly, before Miss Ingram had done more 
than give an assenting nod. “ I understood that Lord 
Royston refused to show it. Even the Brentwood 
people say he is very churlish and inhospitable.” 

‘ ‘ Brentwood is not more charitable than the rest of 
the world,” returned Mr. Ingram, rather dryly. “I 
believe Lord Royston is a great invalid, and that quiet 
is absolutely necessary for him.” 

“Poor man,” had been Mrs. Crompton’s response 
to this, ‘ ‘ it was such a terrible shock to him losing his 
only son in that sudden way. ’ ’ 

“Yes, and now they say his grandson is hopelessly 
ill at Eton.” But here Miss Ingram reddened and 
checked herself a little awkwardly as her brother looked 
at her warningly. 

‘ ‘ My sister and I knew some friends of the Roystons, 
at least we travelled with them,” observed Mr. Ingram, 
easily. ‘ ‘ One picks up a host of acquaintances in that 
way, and some years ago we were treated to a private 
view of the Hall.” 

“Yes, and we were so struck with the Silent Pool,” 
went on Gwendoline, following her brother’s lead. “ I 
don’ t think they even show the grounds now. There 
was some fine tapestry in one of the rooms. Alto- 
gether it is a very interesting place.” And then they 


AN UGLY HEROINE 


255 


had risen simultaneously ; but though she had shown 
them the terrace, there had been no further talk on the 
subject of Brentwood. 

“ I cannot make them out,” Mrs. Compton had said 
to herself as she had watched them from the terrace. 
“They have evidently been accustomed to good so- 
ciety, and yet they must be wretchedly poor. That 
dress of Miss Ingram’s was tailor-made, and fitted her 
perfectly, but it was quite worn at the seams. Her 
brother was far better dressed. Really, he is rather 
pleasant than otherwise.” But Madam with astute 
policy kept all these doubts and surmises to herself. 

Jack went constantly to the Tin Shanty, and before 
long his acquaintance with the brother and sister ripened 
into close intimacy. 

For the first time the young Squire had found friends 
who were perfectly congenial to him. The Bohemian 
ways, the open-air life, the free and easy manners, 
which so shocked the dignified mistress of Kingsdene, 
were all attractions to Jack. 

‘ ‘ Life is ever so much jollier to me since you have 
both come to the Tin Shanty, ’ ’ he said quite seriously 
one evening. But Gwendoline only crinkled up her 
eyelids and laughed. But Jack meant what he said. 
It was delightful to drop in for one of those porch- 
teas on his way from the Farm. No tea ever had such 
a flavour for him, and yet Gwendoline poured it out 
from an ugly brown teapot. By and by he got into the 
habit of strolling up the valley after dinner ; Moritz, 
who was generally smoking in the porch at that hour, 
would hail him lustily. 

How delightful it was to sit in the cool dusk watching 
the lights from Kingsdene twinkling across the valley. 


256 


THE TIN SHANTY 


while Gwendoline played her mandoline, or sang to 
them sweet melodious songs — French or Italian or 
English as the fancy seized her ! Sometimes Moritz 
would accompany her on the violin ; but she oftener 
sung alone. 

Her voice was a little high pitched ; but there were 
wonderful vibrations in it, and at times, when the mood 
was on her, she sung with a passion and power that al- 
most shocked Miss Batesby, as she sat in her close little 
parlour listening to it. 

It was too dramatic, too sensational, for the spinster’s 
taste, and made her vaguely uncomfortable, but to Jack 
it was a revelation and a delight. 

‘ ‘ What a glorious voice your sister has !’ ’ he had 
said to Mr. Ingram that first evening ; “it makes me 
feel quite queer and all-overish, don’t you know.” 
But though Moritz laughed at this boyish criticism, he 
was secretly pleased. 

“Gwendoline’s voice is very uncommon,” he re- 
turned, emptying his pipe carefully. ‘ ‘ I have met 
people who rather disliked it than otherwise, but it has 
been well trained, and she knows her own defects. The 
odd part is that it is affected by her moods. There are 
times when she absolutely cannot sing. But now and 
then, this evening, ■ for example, she seems almost 
inspired. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ She made me feel uncommonly bad once or twice, ’ ’ 
returned Jack, puffing at his pipe ; it was not easy for 
him to put his meaning into words ; those clear melodi- 
ous notes had seemed to play on his very heart-strings ; 
they seemed part of the moonlight, the dark fir woods, 
the faint star-gleams. 

‘ ‘ Life is not all sadness and labour and disappoint- 


AN UGLY HEROINE 


257 


ment, ’ ’ those tones seem to say ; ‘ ‘ there is love, and 
human brotherhood, and true hearts everywhere, and 
God’s truth over all — be comforted, be strong, be at 
peace, for there are angels singing in the clear spaces 
above ; rest, sad heart, and be still.” 

“ I want you to sing to me again,” Jack had said to 
her a few nights later ; but Gwendoline had only looked 
at him and shaken her head. 

“Not to-night,” she said, quietly; “ I cannot get the 
steam up ’ and something in her manner made him 
say no more, and for a long time he did not venture to 
ask her again. 

One evening his mother astonished him by suggesting 
that he should ask the Ingrams to dinner. 

“You are always down at the cottage. Jack,” she 
said, a little plaintively, ‘ ‘ and it must look so strange 
never to ask them here. We could invite the Went- 
worths and Clare Merrick to meet them,” but Jack 
curtly and decidedly refused. 

“ No, mother, thank you. I think it would not do. 
The Ingrams know you are not in touch with them, and 
I don’ t believe they would come if you ask them ; they 
hate dinners and conventionality, and I know Miss 
Ingram means to refuse all invitations.” 

“Ah, very well,” returned Mrs. Compton, dryly. 

‘ ‘ Then I need not trouble myself any further, ’ ’ but 
though she said no more, Jack’s speech had galled her 
terribly : he meant to keep his friends to himself ; she 
was to be left out in the cold as usual : she knew how 
Jack spent his evenings ; more than once she and Pe- 
nelope taking a stroll in the moonlight had paused by 
the inn to listen to that wonderful voice ringing across 
to them. 


17 


258 


THE TIN SHANTY 


“It is very fine, but somehow I do not admire it,” 
Penelope had said. “ It is a littie too high and shrill. ’ ^ 

“It is too operatic for my taste,” remarked Mrs. 
Compton, severely. “Miss Ingram seems to me a 
very odd person. It would not surprise me in the least 
if we were to find out that she was an actress or singer. 
Jack knows absolutely nothing about them, for I have 
questioned him more than once.” 

‘ ‘ They tell me nothing, and I ask no questions, ’ * 
had been Jack’s reply ; but as he said this, it suddenly 
struck him how strangely little he knew about these 
friends of his. They scarcely ever alluded to their 
past life. 

“When we were better off,” Gwendoline had once 
said, and Moritz had spoken jestingly of their palmy 
days. 

‘ ‘ Have you ever lived in London ?” Jack once asked. 
He had been telling them about his mother’s flat. 

“We have lived in many places,” Moritz had an- 
swered, carelessly. “ I do not know if the Wandering 
Jew ever had a sister. London, oh, yes, we have lived 
there, and we once had a hut on Exmoor : when two 
artistic souls are on the search for the picturesque and 
economy, they put up with strange resting-places. Do 
you remember those lodgings at the White Cottage in 
Patterdale, Gwen, and how you knocked your head 
against the ceiling, and the old dame’s unfeeling re- 
mark, ‘ as t’ house was not built for giant folk to poke 
their heads through the whitewash’ ? ’ ’ 

“Don’t, Moritz. I can feel the bump now,” and 
Gwendoline fingered her coil of brown hair. Jack had 
more than once admired her hair : in colour it was like a 
ripe chestnut, only with a sunny gleam in it ; and once 


AN UGLY HEROINE 


259 


when they were blackberrying together, and a bramble 
had caught her hat and dislodged some of the hair- 
pins, a long braid had untwisted that reached to her 
knees, and the beauty and glory of it had taken Jack’s 
breath away. 

He and Gwendoline had soon become close friends ; 
but the day when he told her of his life-trouble, when 
he first understood what the magnetic sweetness of true 
womanly sympathy really meant, was an epoch, a crisis 
to be marked henceforth by a white stone. Things 
had gone badly with him that day, and, as usual, he 
had strolled off to the Tin Shanty, to forget his worries 
in the society of his friends. Gwendoline, who was 
reading in the porch, was struck by the heaviness of 
his aspect, and as he sat down beside her, and she saw 
how tired and pale he looked, such a wistful, kind ex- 
pression came into her eyes, that Jack felt a little thrill 
of emotion pass through him. 

‘ ‘ I wish you would tell me what has been worrying 
you, Mr. Compton,” she said, so frankly, with such 
evident understanding that her friend was in trouble, 
that before many minutes had passed poor Jack had 
blurted it all out. 

He loved his mother dearly : she was the dearest 
and the best mother in the world, but somehow they 
could not understand each other. “ It is just as though 
we spoke different languages,” went on Jack, with a 
touch of rugged eloquence. “ Nothing I can do seems 
to please her. If I had been a clever chap like Felix 
Earle she could have been proud of me, but how is she 
to be content with a slow, stupid sort of fellow, who 
cares for nothing but farming and horses?” 

‘‘I shall thank you, Mr. Compton, to speak more 


26 o 


THE TIN SHANTY 


civilly of my good friend : a slow, stupid sort of fellow, 
indeed,” and here Gwendoline’s laugh was delicious to 
hear. Certainly at that moment Gwen had got ‘ ‘ her 
beauty-face’ ’ ; it was so transfigured with the light of 
sympathy and warm womanly kindness ; and from that 
day she was never ugly in Jack’s eyes, and how wisely, 
and with what old-fashioned sweetness she talked to 
him, though at first she a litde bewildered him, too. 
For her first remark was an extraordinary one : — 

‘ ‘ Thou wilt scarce be a man before thy mother, ’ ’ 
and as Jack’s dark eyes opened rather widely at this, 
she said, with a smile, ‘ ‘ That was only an old quota- 
tion, but it is very true. Don’t you see how simple it 
all is, Mr. Compton? one can never be as old as one’s 
mother ; we cannot be on the same plane ; youth and 
age can never have the same aspect. ’ ’ 

“No, of course not; but. Miss Ingram, you know 
what an awful duffer I am. I wish — I wish — that you 
were not so clever.” And here Jack’s voice had a 
touch of pathos in it : “ Could you not put things more 
plainly ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ My dear Mr. Compton, ’ ’ laughed Gwendoline, 

‘ ‘ don’ t you know simplicity is the hardest thing in the 
world ? Clever brains are not everything. Please re- 
member that my favourite Owen says : ‘ Character is 
higher than intellect ;’ and your mother has every 
right to be proud of you.” And as Jack shook his 
head rather sadly she laid her hand gently on his arm, 
and he could see there were tears in her eyes. 

‘ ‘ Mr. Compton, do try to bear with your mother ; 
she loves you so dearly, even I can see that, and you 
are her only comfort now God has taken away her hus- 
band. Don’t you see how sad it is for her? She has 


AN UGLY HEROINE 


261 

lived all the best part of her life, and yours is to come ; 
but for her there is only loneliness and old age, and 
the house of her long rest. One can only have one 
mother,” and here Gwendoline’s lip trembled slightly. 
‘‘Try and make her happier ; you will never regret it, 
and, believe me, that you will be happier too. Forgive 
me if I have spoken too plainly, but I remember my 
own dear mother, and the thought of how litde I did 
for her comfort often presses heavily upon me now.” 

“Thank you,” observed Jack, in a choked voice. 
“ No,” rather abruptly, “it is no use trying to thank 
you. You have done more for me ’than even you can 
guess. ’ ’ And as he said this there was a glow in Jack’s 
eyes that made Gwendoline flush and turn away, as 
though she were suddenly dazzled. 

For when a woman first sees the love-light kindle in 
a man’s eyes, and feels her heart beat with quick re- 
sponse, it is as though a new day had dawned for her 
on the earth, and such a day had newly dawned for 
Gwendoline and Jack. 


Ill 


JACK^S VICTORY 

The blackberry season was only just over, when the 
good folks of Sandilands and Brentwood were startled 
by the news that Lord Royston was dead. 

His butler had just left him sitting at the breakfast- 
table with an unopened telegram in his hand, and on 
his return a moment later he was alarmed by the sound 
of a heavy thud. His master was stretched on the 
ground insensible and breathing stertorously, with the 
telegram still grasped in his stiffening fingers. 

‘ ‘ An apoplectic seizure, brought on by the sudden 
news of his grandson’s death,” was the physician’s 
unanimous verdict. ‘ ‘ It was just what they had 
feared,” and so on. 

There was nothing to be done. The faithful old 
butler, and the housekeeper, and his ancient valet, who 
had been his foster brother, watched beside him all that 
day until the last flicker of life had died away. 

With the exception of these old retainers, there 
were no real mourners. Viscount Royston had been 
a hypochondriac and a recluse since the death of his 
only son. His personality was a limited one, full of 
trivialities ; a thin, puerile soul, whose life pilgrimage 
had been an incessant fight against visionary obstacles. 

Lord Royston had only really loved two people in 
262 


JACK’S VICTORY 263 

his whole life — his only son, in whom all his hopes 
were centred, and himself. He had been proud of his 
grandson ; the clever, sharp-witted lad was likely to 
do him credit, but he had never cared to have the boy 
much at Brentwood ; boys, even the best of them, 
were embarrassing companions. He was very fond 
of Hugh ; he wrote long weekly letters to him, and 
was very liberal in the matter of pocket-money, but 
when the holidays came round Hugh and his tutor 
generally found themselves packed off to the old 
Welsh castle that was part of the Royston property. 

And yet when the news had reached the old man 
that his heir was dead the shock had been his death- 
blow. And so Hugh Abercrombie Ingram, the ninth 
Viscount Royston, was gathered to his fathers, in the 
grey old granite tomb where his wife and his son and 
his daughter-in-law lay, and his grandson, Hugh the 
younger, was buried with him, and the only mourner 
was his next of kin — a distant relative whom he had 
ignored all his life, and who, to his own great aston- 
ishment, found himself Viscount Royston with thirty 
thousand a year. Sandilands was so near Brentwood 
that a special interest always attached to Brentwood 
Hall. Sandilands was rather proud of its aristocratic 
neighbour, and until lately Brentwood Hall and the 
Park and the Silent Pool had been regarded as show 
places. 

“We must drive you to Brentwood,” Mrs. Comp- 
ton had always said to her guests. * ‘ There is some 
fine old tapestry and a picture gallery, and then the 
Silent Pool is one of our sights.” And when it was 
first understood that Lord Royston had laid an inter- 
dict on all sightseers, Sandilands had passed a vote of 


264 the tin shanty 

indignation. *‘The old churl,” that was what they 
called him. 

Jack was full of the news when he went up to the 
Tin Shanty, but he thought Gwendoline looked at him 
a little oddly as he told her. 

“Yes, I know ; it is terribly sad. Poor old Lord 
Royston,” and then she sighed, and went on with her 
occupation. She was trimming her sailor hat with a 
broad black ribbon. With a sudden freak Jack caught 
up the old frayed blue ribbon and stuffed it into his 
waistcoat pocket. 

Gwendoline looked at him in rather a bewildered 
manner. “Oh, please do not take that,” she said, 
quickly ; “it is so frayed and old and dirty, ’ ’ and 
then she stopped with a sudden flush as Jack looked 
at her steadily. 

* ‘ I shall keep it because you have worn it, ’ ’ he re- 
turned. ‘ ‘ Gwendoline, ’ ’ it was the first time he had 
called her by her name, and she thrilled from head to 
foot as she heard it, “ it is such a lovely morning, more 
like August than October. Come with me into the fir 
wood, and leave that stupid millinery business,” and 
Jack’s voice had such a caressing tone in it, and his 
dark eyes — those beautiful eyes that Gwen had once 
said reminded her of a spaniel’s — were so masterful in 
their eloquence, that Gwendoline put down her work 
meekly, and so went into the sunshine to meet her 
fate. 

Jack never knew with what words he wooed his 
lady-love. When he came to himself he seemed to 
be saying over and over again, “ Oh, Gwendoline, my 
darling, why will you not answer me? I want one 
word, only one word,” but Gwendoline only hid her 


JACK’S VICTORY 265 

face in her hands and wept passionately, and how was 
he to guess, poor fellow, that they were only tears of 
joy. 

They were in a sunny little clearing just above the 
cottage. Gwendoline was sitting against a tree trunk, 
and Jack, half kneeling, half crouching beside her, was 
watching her anxiously. The red Tam-o’-Shanter cap 
lay on her lap, and the smooth coils of brown hair 
looked glossy in the sunlight. With a sudden, lover- 
like impulse Jack softly kissed them, and then half- 
shyly, half-proudly, stroked them. 

“Darling, it is so beautiful,” he whispered, as 
though in apology for the liberty he had taken, but 
he was a little dismayed when Gwen suddenly flung 
off his hand. 

“ Don’t,” she said, as though he were hurting her ; 
‘ ‘ please don’ t. There is something I must say first, 
that I don’t know how to say,” and then to his sur- 
prise and joy she hid her burning face against his 
shoulder. “Jack, let me say it here. I heard what 
you said, and I tried to believe it, but I cannot — I can- 
not, ’ ’ and here a sob mastered her. 

‘ ‘ What can you not believe, dearest ?’ ’ he asked, 
tenderly ; ‘ ‘ that I love you. Why, Gwen, I think I 
have loved you ever since that day when you first sang 
to me.” 

“Not really,” and here he felt her tremble all over ; 
* ‘ but that was more than two months ago. No, not 
yet, ” as he threatened to be demonstrative, ‘ ‘ let me 
say something else first. Do you know what I once 
told Moritz ? that I should never marry, never have a 
lover, because I was so ugly. Please, please,” as 
Jack laughed boyishly at this, “it is no joke. It has 


266 


THE TIN SHANTY 


been a real trouble to me ; that is why I cried so when 
you said you loved me. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Gwendoline, my darling, ’ ’ and then all of a sudden 
Jack’s voice grew a little husky, “you need never 
trouble yourself about that again. I love you, and I 
would not change my sweetheart’s face for all the 
beauty in the world. Hush, you shall not say another 
word,” and Jack so effectually closed her lips that 
Gwendoline w’as silenced. 

‘ ‘ I have got my beauty-face, ’ ’ were her first words 
to Moritz that evening when he returned from town, 
and then the feckless creature began to laugh and cry 
at the same time. ‘ ‘ Oh, Moritz, dear old boy, I am so 
happy. Jack and I are engaged. He is the dearest 
and the noblest and the most simple fellow in the world, 
and I love him with all my heart. He cares for me, 
just as I am — ugly, freckled Gwen — and he does not 
know, ’ ’ and then she laughed again and Moritz laughed 
with her, but there were tears in his eyes too. But 
while Gwendoline was revelling in her brother’s sym- 
pathy, or thinking of her lover with sweet womanly 
tenderness, poor Jack was undergoing martyrdom in 
his mother’s dressing-room. 

At his first words, his quick, manly announcement 
of his engagement with Gwendoline Ingram, Mrs. Comp- 
ton had first turned white and rigid, and then had gone 
into a violent fit of hysterics, and Penelope and Trim- 
mer, in great alarm, had begged him to absent himself 
for a while. 

“ You were too abrupt,” Penelope said to him in her 
wise, concise way. “Your mother is highly strung, 
and her feelings are more acute than other people’s. 
Oh, it is only an hysterical attack,” as Jack looked at 


JACK’S VICTORY 


267 


her anxiously; ‘ ^ you must give her time to come round. 
When she is better she is sure to ask for you, so do not 
go farther than the garden,” and Jack, puzzled and mis- 
erable in spite of his great happiness, wandered up and 
down the terrace like a lost spirit. 

It was not until late that evening that he saw his 
mother again. She was lying on her couch, looking 
wan and old, and there were violet shadows under her 
eyes that seemed to add to their depth and lustre, and 
as Jack knelt down beside her she looked at him with a 
faint, sad smile. 

“ I am sorry that I misbehaved. Jack,” she said, with 
a pitiful attempt at playfulness, ‘ ‘ but you were too sud- 
den, and nerves are not made of leather, ’ ’ and then her 
lips trembled and got pale again, and the pain in her 
voice filled him with dull dismay. ” Oh, Jack, why are 
things so frightfully hard for me in this world ? You are 
all I have — my only one — and all your life you have 
crossed my will, ’ ’ and then, with a haggard smile, she 
said, bitterly, ‘ ‘ I am weary of my life because of this 
daughter of Heth.” 

Poor woman, there was something tragical in her ex- 
cessive grief. Another time Jack might have waxed 
impatient, but love and love’s lessons, and the wise 
counsels of Gwendoline, were making a man of him ; 
so he turned aside her complaints with unusual gen- 
tleness. 

‘ ‘ Dear old mother, ’ ’ he said, kissing her, * ‘ I should 
love to make you happy, but a man is bound to choose 
his wife for himself. If you only knew what Gwen is, 
how clever and wise and true. I never knew a girl 
like her,” and here words failed Jack, and he sat 
smiling to himself in the semi-darkness after the usual 


268 


THE TIN SHANTY 


fatuous fashion of youthful lovers. Gwendoline would 
have laughed with infantine rapture if she had known 
how transfigured and glorified she was in Jack’s inward 
vision. 

Mrs. Compton remained silent from sheer disgust and 
hopelessness. Jack had taken the fatal disease badly ; 
he was in the first hot stage of delirious rapture. Clev- 
erness and truth and wisdom were all excellent things 
in their way, but when they were to be taken in con- 
junction with a tall, gawky young woman who crinkled 
up her eyelids and had freckles, and whose clothes 
might have come out of the Ark for shabbiness. Jack’s 
mother saw no cause for congratulation ; the very 
daughter-in-law whom her soul most abhorred was to 
be forced on her. No wonder the widow said to her- 
self that night as she wept in the darkness, ‘ ‘ What 
good shall my life do me ?’ ’ And yet, strange to say, 
it was Jack — simple, honest Jack — ^who remained victo- 
rious ; it was the strong- witted, self-willed woman of 
the world who had to submit. 

Isabel Compton had a proud temper, but she was not 
utterly self-centred. Her motherhood forbade that. 
When Jack’s young face began to look worn and sad, 
and his eyes gazed at her wistfully, the nobler and bet- 
ter side of Isabel’s nature wakened within her. They 
were a strangely assorted pair, she thought ; never 
were mother and son so utterly dissimilar, but, if one 
must be unhappy, it should not be Jack. And then 
the divine spirit of abnegation and self-sacrifice that lie 
fundamentally at the root of every true character came 
to the surface. 

“Dear Jack, please do not look so unhappy,” and 
then her tender motherly arms went round the young 


269 


JACK’S VICTORY 

man’s neck. “Kiss me, Jack, dear, and do not 
quarrel any more with your poor old mother. Dear, 
I will try to be good to your Gwendoline,” here she 
bravely stifled a sigh, ‘ ‘ but you must both be patient 
with me. I will go and see her to-morrow,” but 
here Jack’s mighty hug almost took away her breath. 
Never since his childhood had she ever received such 
a caress. 

‘ ‘ Oh, mother, how good you are to me !’ ’ he said, 
almost remorsefully, as he released her from his em- 
brace, and at that moment Mrs. Compton was certainly 
not unhappy. After all. Jack loved her, and the ter- 
rible barrier was down between them. It was only as 
she lay alone in the autumnal darkness that the grim, 
unlovely reality forced itself on her. Yes, she would 
keep her promise ; she would be good to Jack’s wife, 
but there could be no love between them, and as she 
tossed on her sleepless pillow, longing for the dawn, 
she registered a mental vow that the day that saw 
Gwendoline Ingram Mistress of Kingsdene she would 
shake off the dust of Sandilands and return to her flat. 

Mrs. Compton’s miserable night ended in a bad sick- 
headache, and it was not until late in the afternoon that 
she felt able to pay her promised visit. 

Jack had spent most of his morning at the Tin 
Shanty, but he said nothing about his mother’s inten- 
tion. When Gwendoline questioned him a little ner- 
vously he managed to evade any awkward disclosures. 

‘ ‘ My mother was very much startled when I told 
her about our engagement,” he said. “ I am afraid I 
was rather too abrupt. We must give her time to get 
used to the idea, Gwen,” and then Gwendoline, who 
was shrewd enough to read between the lines, very 


270 


THE TIN SHANTY 


wisely refrained from any further questioning, and 
only gave herself up to the delight of her lover’s 
society. 

“You have not repented, Jack?” she asked, rather 
archly ; but Jack’s answer entirely satisfied her. 

They passed the morning wandering about the fir 
woods, and talking happily about the future. Once 
Jack asked after Moritz, but Gwendoline answered 
carelessly that he had gone over to Brentwood again. 
“ Moritz is rather busy just now,” she continued, as 
she stopped to pick some red and yellow leaves that 
attracted her. 

. “Let me gather them for you, darling, ’’"observed 
Jack, hastily. “You see, Gwen, though I want to do 
nothing but talk to you, I really ought to speak to 
Ingram. He is your proper guardian, don’t you 
know ?’ ’ but Gwendoline only laughed and crinkled 
her eyebrows. 

“It does not really matter. Jack, because I am of 
age ; but, of course, you shall talk to Moritz as much 
as you like. Just now he is up to his ears in business, 
but he told me to give you his love and congratulations. 
He said you were to be congratulated,” and here Gwen 
smiled in Jack’s face, “but, of course, that was only 
his nonsense.” 

“ It was no nonsense at all,” returned Jack, hotly, 
and then he took her hand and kissed it. ‘ ‘ Gwen, 
darling, tell me what stones you would prefer for your 
engagement ring — diamonds or emeralds?” and this 
weighty question occupied them for some time. 

Mrs. Compton looked so pale and weary when she 
started for the Tin Shanty, that Jack felt a twinge ol 
remorse. It had been arranged between them that she 


271 


JACK’S VICTORY 

should go alone, and that Jack should follow her in a 
quarter of an hour. Mrs. Compton, who was extremely 
nervous and depressed, had extorted this concession 
from him, but though Jack pretended to grumble he 
was inwardly relieved. No man ever desires to place 
himself voluntarily in an awkward situation, or to ex- 
pose himself to a mauvais quart <r heure ^ and Jack was 
not at all displeased that his mother preferred to go 
alone. Poor Mrs. Compton, in spite of her splendid 
physique, the climb up to the Tin Shanty was a 
veritable Hill of Difficulty to her, and she was so 
breathless that she was obliged to stand in the porch a 
moment. 

Chatty, who was taking in the milk, regarded her 
with a benevolent grin. 

‘ ‘ Oh, laws, yes, Miss Ingram was in, and Mr. 
Ingram too, and another gentleman. She had just 
been lighting the fire, because the gentleman said it 
was so cold,” and as Chatty finished this communi- 
cation she threw open the parlour door. 

“If you please. Miss, here’s Madam come to see 
you,” she announced, for to Chatty the Mistress of 
Kingsdene was always Madam. 

Gwendoline reddened, and looked at her brother, 
then she came forward rather nervously. 

“It is very good of you to come, Mrs. Compton,” 
she said with gentle courtesy ; and then the older 
woman, who had already rehearsed her part, kissed her 
cheek. The touch of those cold lips made Gwendoline 
shiver. 

‘ ‘ My dear Miss Ingram, it was my duty to come ; I 
am Jack’s mother.” She said this a little grandly, and 
there was a fine sweep of her drapery that almost en- 


272 THE TIN SHANTY 

veloped Moritz when he came up to shake hands with 
her. 

“ I am afraid the news has taken you by surprise,” 
he observed pleasantly, and even at that moment she 
was amazed at his air of easy assurance. “Young 
people sometimes make up their minds rather sud- 
denly, Mrs. Compton. Let me introduce Mr. Fraser 
to you — our family lawyer and an old friend. Fraser, 
this lady is Mr. Compton’s mother,” and then the 
grey- haired, sharp-featured man rubbed his hands to- 
gether, and looked at the stately widow approvingly. 

“Yes, yes, I see. Well, as we have finished that 
bit of business, I will just take myself off to the inn, and 
to-morrow morning I will look in on you again. What 
time shall we say. Lord Royston ?’ ’ and then the lawyer 
turned to Mrs. Compton with a courtly bow. “ You 
will excuse us a moment, I am sure ; for you can 
understand that this sudden and unexpected succession 
makes Lord Royston exceedingly busy. To-morrow’s 
the funeral,” but the rest of the lawyer’s speech never 
reached Mrs. Compton’s ears. “ Lord Royston,” she 
murmured faintly, as she sank on a chair, and she grew 
so pale that Gwendoline was quite alarmed. 

‘ ‘ My brother is the next of kin, ’ ’ she said, simply, 
as the two gentlemen left the room, ‘ ‘ but we only saw 
poor old Lord Royston twice. He had quarrelled with 
our father, we never rightly knew why, and so he kept 
Moritz at arm’s length ; and, of course, we never im- 
agined that this would happen. Poor little Hugh, we 
thought he would certainly be Lord Royston, but to- 
morrow he and his grandfather will be buried together.” 

“ Gwen, my dear,” observed Moritz, briskly, he had 
that moment re-entered the room, “Mrs. Compton 


273 


JACK’S VICTORY 

looks tired and overwhelmed ; suppose you instruct 
the infant to bring in the tea,” and as Gwendoline de- 
parted on hospitable thoughts intent Lord Royston sat 
down beside his bewildered guest. 

” I don’t wonder you are surprised,” he said in his 
serio-comic way. ‘ ‘ I tell Gwen that I have to pinch 
myself at intervals to be sure that I am not dreaming. 
Brentwood Hall and thirty thousand a year is rather 
overwhelming after three months of the Tin Shanty. 
Ah, here comes Jack. Good old fellow, I wonder what 
he will say when he knows his beggar-maid has a pretty 
little dowry of twenty thousand pounds. Fraser says I 
must give her that, you know,” continued Moritz, con- 
fidentially. “ My father. Colonel Ingram, ran through 
his property, and left us next to nothing. . He was in 
the Guards, and unfortunately he was fond of high play. 
My mother, she was a Miss Hazledean, and the present 
Sir Rolf is our cousin, helped him to pay his debts. 
We were living in Belgravia then, but we had to econo- 
mise on the Continent for a year or two. Dear me, 
what changes Gwen and I have seen.” Lord Royston 
was giving Mrs. Compton time to recover herself ; then 
his manner changed. “ Hulloa, Jack, don’t run away ; 
Gwen will be here directly. Good luck and best wishes 
to you, my boy,” and he grasped Jack’s hand warmly. 

“Thanks, old fellow,” returned Jack, gratefully, but 
Mrs. Compton could keep silence no longer. 

“ Oh, Jack, Jack, forgive me,” she sobbed. “ I was 
so hard on you last night, and now coals of fire are 
being heaped on my head. Do you know who Mr. 
Ingram is ? He is Lord Royston, and Brentwood Hall 
belongs to him.” Then Jack turned very pale, and his 
mouth was suddenly compressed. For the first time he 

i8 


274 


THE TIN SHANTY 


looked his mother’s image. Gwendoline, who was just 
entering with a plate of cakes, regarded him with 
dismay. 

‘ ‘ Oh, dear, who has been worrying Jack?’ ’ she asked, 
with naive girlishness. Then Jack suddenly marched 
up to her and seized her hands. 

“Gwen,” he said, hoarsely, “will this make any 
difference ? Why did you not tell me this before ? I 
am the last to hear it, and I ought to have been the 
first. You have engaged yourself to me, and, by 
heavens, I will not give you up ; but perhaps your 
brother will disapprove.” 

“No, he won’t, old fellow,” and Moritz brought 
down his hand on Jack’s shoulder with a mighty clap. 

‘ ‘ He is not such a fool ; he says take her and bless 
ye, my children,” and Moritz struck a melodramatic 
attitude. 

“But, Gwen, dearest,” and here, quite unmindful of 
his mother’s presence. Jack put his audacious arm round 
his fiancte. 

“Jack, dear, I did not want you to know,” she whis- 
pered in his ear. ‘ ‘ It was so sweet to feel that you 
cared for me just for myself.” 

“Exactly so,” chimed in Lord Royston, cheerfully ; 
“ Gwen and I are both Idealists, and I had not the 
heart to spoil her charming little idyll. ‘ I don’t want 
Mr. Compton to be told just yet.’ Now, Gwen, those 
were your very words.” Then Gwendoline blushed, 
and looked up at Jack with a wistful appeal in her eyes. 

“Dear, it cannot be helped now,” he said in the 
slow, quiet voice that was natural to him. “I would 
much rather have had things as they were, and not all 
this fuss, but we must just put up with it.” 


275 


JACK’S VICTORY 

Was it not splendid of Jack to say that before his 
mother?” Gwen observed afterwards, when she and 
Moritz were talking over things. ‘ ‘ Oh, Mori, I am as 
proud and happy as a queen. Jack does not care a 
straw about my twenty thousand pounds. He says 
such a lot of money will be an awful bother, and that 
he had plenty of his own.” And then Gwendoline 
smiled happily. 

What did her lack of beauty matter now she had 
this true sweetheart of her own ? Could any knight be 
more leal and devoted ? ‘ ‘ Darling, it is so beautiful !’ ’ 
how those words rang in her ears ! As Gwendoline 
brushed out her hair that night she took up a long tress 
and kissed it almost passionately. ‘ ‘ With what boyish 
reverence his lips had touched it. Oh, Jack, my own 
Jack, how I love you !” and that night Gwendoline 
could not sleep for happiness. 

When Lord Royston had carried off Jack for a smoke 
and a talk, Gwendoline had been left alone with Mrs. 
Compton. It was an awkward moment for them both, 
but Madam’s savoir faire saved the situation. 

“Gwendoline,” she said, softly, “when Jack told 
me about things yesterday I was very much upset ; but 
I said to him then that I would try to be good to you, 
and I meant to keep my word. I hope you will do me 
the justice to believe that.” 

‘ ‘ Dear Mrs. Compton, how kind of you to say that !’ ’ 
and there was a little flush of pleasure on Gwendoline’s 
cheek. “I know how hard it was on you, for, of 
course, you knew nothing about me, and we were so 
dreadfully poor. Why,” continued Gwen in her frank 
way, ‘ ‘ we were very nearly at the end of our tether. 
Moritz, poor old fellow, could not sell his daubs, no 


276 


THE TIN SHANTY 


one would look at them, and I was just making up my 
mind to look out for some situation as governess or 
companion.” And then she laughed and looked at 
Mrs. Compton. 

‘ ‘ And now you are going to be my daughter and 
Jack’s wife.” Mrs. Compton spoke gravely: under 
the circumstances any demonstration would be in bad 
taste. ‘ ‘ And I hope that in time we shall be good 
friends. ’ ’ And as she made this little speech she kissed 
the girl’s cheek, and this time Gwendoline felt no in- 
ward chill. 

That walk back under the starlight was a memorable 
one to Mrs. Compton, and as she leant on Jack’s arm 
and felt his strong support, her widow’s heart seemed 
to sing for joy. Jack, her dear boy Jack, would never 
disappoint her more — the sister of a viscount with 
twenty thousand pounds was surely a good enough 
match for any squire in Christendom, and yet the 
foolish fellow was making believe to grumble. 

Ingram — he begged his pardon — Royston had been 
putting down his foot. He was an obstinate old beg- 
gar. He had vowed that there must be no mar- 
riage for six or eight months to come. He could not 
part with Gwendoline ; she must settle him at the Hall, 
and take her place as mistress until he had got used to 
things a bit. 

“It is an awful nuisance,” growled Jack; “there 
will be a grand wedding and no end of a fuss, and I 
know Gwen and I will hate it.” Then Mrs. Compton 
smiled and held her peace — she would not mar the 
harmony of this moment by telling him that she was 
on Lord Royston’ s side. 

Madam did not see either Gwendoline or her brother 


277 


JACK’S VICTORY 

again for some days, though Jack spent half his time 
at the Tin Shanty ; but one evening they came up to 
Kingsdene to dinner. 

When Gwendoline entered the Kingsdene drawing- 
room followed by her brother, Mrs. Compton started, 
and Jack grew very red, the distinguished looking girl 
in the black silk dress, with a pearl necklace that 
scarcely rivalled her white neck and with a diamond 
arrow shot through her brown coil of hair, could hardly 
be recognised as the ‘ ‘ tall, gawky young woman in the 
frayed serge. ” “ Gwen, you were always a darling, but 
to-night you look quite lovely. Is it because you have 
got a new frock ?” and Jack looked at her with puzzled 
eyes. 

It was true his ugly duckling was developing into a 
swan, but perhaps, after all, Gwen’s beauty-face was 
only for those who loved her ; in most people’s eyes 
young Mrs. John Compton was an exceedingly plain 
young woman, ‘ ‘ not that one remembers it when she 
talks or laughs,” observed old Mrs. Fortescue, “for 
she has the pleasantest voice and manner, and really 
she sings like an angel,” but Jack kept his own opinion 
to himself. 

But his first act, when Lord Royston took up his 
abode at Brentwood Hall, was to buy the Tin Shanty, 
and there in their early married days would he and 
Gwen betake themselves for a blissful hour or two. 
On these occasions Gwendoline always wore her red 
Tam-o’-Shanter, and Jack always vowed that no other 
head-dress so well became her. 



VII 

THE AFTERMATH 


279 






THE AFTERMATH 


It was the general opinion in Sandilands that from 
the hour Miss Patience died the Vicar was an altered 
man. It was as though some blight had crept over 
him ; some chill despondency that robbed him of 
strength and energy. His work no longer interested 
him, and the dust gathered on his beloved books. To 
outward appearance he was only a little more silent and 
stately — and only the friends who loved him and watched 
him closely guessed that the canker of some secret 
sorrow was eating out all the sweetness of his life. 

The silence and loneliness of the Vicarage oppressed 
him strangely. When twilight came, and he sat brood- 
ing in the red firelight, it would seem to him sometimes 
as though he felt some gentle shadowy presence beside 
him ; as though, if he were to turn his head, he would 
see Patience looking at him with her tender, pathetic 
smile. At times the impression was so strong on him 
that he would rise from his chair abruptly, and pace up 
and down the room to rouse himself. 

Dearly as he had loved her, he had never realised that 
he would miss her so intensely, or that her sweet person- 
ality had been the great comfort of his life ; her affliction 
had made her centre all her strongest affections and inter- 
ests on the brother who so needed her care — and it was 
only now, when he had lost her, that Evelyn Wentworth 
gauged rightly the depth of that selfless devotion. 

“ If I had only done more for her,” he would say to 

281 


282 


THE AFTERMATH 


himself, and the remembrance of those long silent even- 
ings, when she had sat knitting contentedly beside him, 
as he read book after book, rose vividly before him ; 
why had he been so forgetful and selfish ? Why had 
he not laid down his book sometimes to talk to her? 
because in her divine patience she had never asserted 
any claim. “It is late, Evelyn, and I must bid you 
good-night; do not sit up too late, my dear.” That 
had been her simple formula night after night. How 
small and white her face had looked ; and what weary 
lines these were under her eyes I ‘ ‘ My poor, poor 
Patience, ’ ’ he would sigh ; and a passionate longing to 
atone for past neglect would sweep over him. 

Some verses the little Sister once showed him in a 
favourite book haunted him perpetually — 

“The hands were such dear hands ; 

They are so full ; they turn at our demand 

So often, they reach out 

With trifles scarcely thought about ; 

So many things they do for me, for you. 

If their fond wills mistake 
We may well bend, not break.” 

One September evening the little Sister, crossing the 
churchyard on her way from Sandy Point, saw the 
Vicar standing before the marble cross, with his eyes 
fixed on the graven word ‘ ‘ Ephphatha. ’ * Something 
in his attitude and expression appealed to her, and after 
a moment’s hesitation she crossed the grass border and 
joined him. 

He greeted her with a quiet smile ; evidently her 
presence chimed in harmoniously with his thoughts. 

“Ah,” he said, “you were a good friend to her, 
Clare ; you understood her ; she owed to you all the 


THE AFTERMATH 283 

comfort of her last months. You did more for her 
than I did all my life.” 

“I think not,” returned the little Sister, quietly. 
“You gave dear Patience just what she needed — an 
object in life. ’ ’ 

“ ‘ If my brother had married, my life would have 
been more lonely,’ she said that to me one evening not 
long before she died. ‘ But I have had him all to my- 
self, and so it has been full to the brim. I have not to 
think of myself at all, only of him.’ Dear Mr. Went- 
worth, it is not like you to be morbid. I think Mr. 
Cornish is right, and that it is not good for you to be 
so much alone.” 

“It is good for no man,” returned the Vicar ; but 
he spoke absently, and the cloud that had been raised 
for a moment settled on him again. When the little 
Sister had left him, he walked back to the Vicarage — 
he remembered that his friend Cornish was to arrive by 
a late train that evening ; but for once even this antici- 
pation failed to move him from his depression. 

He was out of gear bodily and mentally ; and though 
he battled bravely against an overwhelming sense of 
weariness and dejection, he was conscious that the 
enemy was too strong for him — that his nerve was fail- 
ing him, and that he must have change or relief, or he 
would break down utterly. 

But it was not only his sister’s loss that was pressing 
on him so heavily — that meeting with Marion Brett, 
more than a year before, had reopened his old wound 
cruelly. Why had she crossed the threshold of his 
lonely home — that home she had refused to bless ; why 
had she stepped out into the sunshine, like some strange 
angel, only to embitter his waking hours with feverish 


284 


THE AFTERMATH 


longing to see that dear face again? “Marion, you 
have been my blessing and my curse — my torment and 
my delight,” he would groan within himself ; and there 
were times when his burden lay so heavy upon him that 
he would pray that he might cease to love her, but the 
next moment he would shudder at his own heresy, for 
he was by nature strong and faithful, and believed in 
the immortality of a noble love. ‘ ‘ She is mine, for she 
gave herself to me, and one day I shall have her for 
my own,” he would say to himself. “ Patience, sweet 
soul, was hard on her, she could not understand 
Marion’s complex nature ; but when she angered me 
most, I still did her justice ; with all her faults and 
mistakes she is a noble woman.” 

When Douglas Cornish saw his friend’s face that 
evening, there was a quick sudden gleam of some 
strong feeling in the keen hawk-like eyes ; but his 
greeting was as cool and quiet as though they had met 
the previous day. 

“ I hope my telegram did not put you out, Went- 
worth,” he observed ; “ but I had a spare day, and I 
thought it would be profitably spent in looking you up. ’ ’ 
But as the Professor went up to his old room to get rid 
of the dust of his journey, he thought how tired and 
haggard Evelyn was looking. “This place will kill 
him in time ; I must get him up to Oxford, and find 
him some work ; he is eating his heart out in this 
dreary old Vicarage.” And then he stood still and 
looked out at the dark firs. 

‘ ‘ I must tell him, I suppose, but I fear he will 
worry over it, and he looks pretty bad now — still, in 

his place ” and here the Professor shook himself 

impatiently as though the decision troubled him. 


THE AFTERMATH 


285 

But all through dinner he was his old eloquent self, 
and more than once Barry smiled to himself as he 
waited at the side-board, as though the flavour of the 
old Oxford days were sweet to him ; but though the 
Vicar listened and responded, no ringing boyish laugh 
hailed the raciest joke. 

It was one of those still fragrant nights in September, 
a brilliant harvest moon hung like a golden lamp in the 
dark sky, the air was steeped with the sweet resinous 
perfume of the firs, and the mingled scents of late 
blooming flowers. 

When the Vicarage garden had been planned, a 
small portion of the fir woods had been enclosed. Here 
on the hottest summer’s day there was a cool shady 
retreat 

In accordance with Patience’s wish, a rustic bench 
and table had been placed here, and a grassy bank 
planted thickly with primroses and wild hyacinth, 
stretching to the garden terrace. It was a favourite 
spot with both the brother and sister. Patience would 
call it her woodland parlour ; and there she would sit 
with her work and book, while the wood-pigeons cooed to 
her unheard, or the rabbits would flash across the clear- 
ing, popping in and out their holes, quite fearlessly. 

On fine summer evenings the Vicar loved to smoke 
his pipe there, and, by mutual consent, he and the 
Professor turned their steps towards the wild garden ; 
the moon was flooding the terraces with silvery light, 
and the grey walls of the Vicarage looked grand and 
mediaeval in the transforming radiance. 

As they sat down, both men had become suddenly 
silent : the Vicar, weary with his effort to appear like 
his ordinary self, had suddenly relapsed into his old 


286 


THE AFTERMATH 


melancholy, and the Professor, puffing slowly at his pipe, 
was saying to himself : “I suppose I may as well tell 
him now,” but before he could get the first words out, 
the Vicar turned round suddenly. 

“By the bye, Cornish,” he said, rather abruptly, 
“ I wanted to ask you something — have you seen any- 
thing of Miss Brett lately ?’ * Mr. Cornish started, and 
a dark flush crossed his brow. 

“Why, Wentworth,” he said, with a nervous laugh, 

‘ ‘ it must have been transmission of thought. I was 
just going to tell you something about her. You will 
be sorry to hear that she has had a rather bad accident. ’ ’ 
Was it the moonlight that made the Vicar look so 
pale ? “ An accident,” he repeated — and Douglas Cor- 
nish saw the hand next him clench and unclench itself 
as though some acute pain had seized him, and then 
under his breath : “ I have heard nothing — ^who is there 
who would take the trouble to tell me ?’ ’ And then 
with sudden irritation, as though his endurance were 
too tightly strained : ‘ ‘ Why do you keep me waiting 
like this ? I must know everything, everything. ’ * 

‘ ‘ My dear fellow, you shall know all that I can tell 
you ; but there is no need for you to be anxious now ; 
Miss Brett is better, she has had capital nursing. I saw 
the doctor myself ; I went down to St. Margaret’s di- 
rectly I heard about it. That was only last week ; and 
of course all the fuss and danger was over. ” 

“ Ah, she was in danger then, in danger, and I never 
knew !” The Vicar’s tone was so full of bitterness and 
suppressed anguish, that the Professor winced as he 
heard it. 

‘ ‘ My dear Wentworth, we none of us knew it ; for the 
matter of that, we are all liable to accidents. Who of 


THE AFTERMATH 


287 


us can predicate safely what may happen to him in the 
next four-and-twenty hours ? Let me tell you every- 
thing as I heard it. One of the Grey Ladies or Sisters, 
as I think they call them, told me exactly how it hap- 
pened. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ One moment, Cornish, did you see Marion herself ?’ * 

“No,” rather reluctantly, “she was not strong 
enough for that ; I think she was lying down. She is 
still weak and pulled down.” 

‘ ‘ Good heavens ! Marion weak, and she never had 
a day’s sickness in her life. There, go on, Cornish, 
and I will try not to interrupt you — but do not keep 
me on the rack long.” 

“I will do my best,” replied the Professor, rather 
sadly ; ‘ ‘ but I wish you could have heard it from that 
little grey-eyed Sister. She was such a kind, chirpy 
little body. Miss Brett was in splendid condition that 
day, she had been working hard in the slums, and at 
tea-time she had seemed in excellent spirits, and so full 
of her work that she could talk of nothing else. 

“There was a night-school that evening, and she 
went to it as usual ; and Sister Miriam, the little grey- 
eyed Sister, was with her. Just before the hour for 
closing came there was a sudden alarm of fire and the 
engine dashed past. Of course all the men and boys 
rushed out, and Miss Brett, with her usual impulsive- 
ness, followed them, and after a moment’s hesitation 
Sister Miriam locked the door and went too. ‘ I 
thought Sister Marion would get into mischief without 
me,’ she said ; and then with a little laugh, that was 
half a sob, ‘ but I was too late ; the crowd separated us, 
and I could not get near her.’ 

‘ ‘ It was one of those closely packed tenements in 


288 


THE AFTERMATH 


Mandeville Street that was on fire, and, strange to say, it 
was the very house where Miss Brett had spent the 
greater part of the day. When Sister Miriam caught 
sight of her, she was near the firemen, and one of them 
had handed her two children ; she seemed directing the 
men, for a bystander heard her say, ‘ It is on the third 
floor and the woman is bedridden, and there is a para- 
lysed man too. ’ And after a delay and a great deal of 
anxious watching, the helpless creatures were brought 
out. 

‘ ‘ This was all Sister Miriam could tell me from her 
own observations, the rest was only gleaned from th 
lookers on. One of the firemen had been dangerously 
injured, and then it was said that the staircase was 
burning ; the next moment a poor distracted woman’s 
voice was heard in the crowd screaming out for Harry 
and the baby. Miss Brett heard it, and recognised the 
voice. It belonged to a young widow, one of her special 
favourites ; the poor creature had been out charring, 
and had left the children in a neighbour’s care. No 
one had seen the children, and not a man dared to re- 
enter the house ; they had to hold the poor mother 
by force. ‘ The smoke will have suffocated them long 
ago,’ exclaimed one sympathising Irishwoman ; ‘ shurr ’ 
Nora avick, the darlints are safe in Paradise with the 
blessed Mary, the mother of sorrows.’ But at t! *: 
moment a tremendous shout and cheering broke out, 
for there, black and grimed, scarcely recognisable, 
stood Sister Marion with two children in her arms. 
But as she tottered towards them, some one saw her 
sway, and caught her before she fell. The boy was 
crying with terror, but otherwise unhurt, but the baby 
she held so tightly to her breast was dead. Some- 


THE AFTERMATH 289 

thing heavy had fallen and struck it, for they found a 
cruel wound on the little head.” 

‘ ‘ And Marion ? oh, my God ! and Marion ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ My dear fellow, how she escaped with her life was 
a miracle ; but no one can induce her to say much. 

“ ‘ I went through a hell, but I knew the children 
were at the other side, ’ that was all she said ; ‘ and I 
thought of the burning fiery furnace, and asked the 
dear Lord to take care of me. And you say the poor 
baby is dead, my little god-daughter, but I knew noth- 
ing, I saw nothing, only the roar and the hiss of the 
^ong red serpents everywhere.’ ” 

, “ And she is hurt ?” 

*‘Yes, of course; one side and arm were badly 
burned, and what she suffered for days and nights only 
her doctors and nurses know, but they pulled her 
through ; it was the shock to the system you see, and 
then she strained herself carrying those children. She 
had only the use of one arm, the other was powerless. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Do you mean it was broken ?’ ’ 

“Yes,” very reluctantly; “it was broken by the 
same falling beam that killed the baby ; but it was the 
burns that caused her the worst suffering. She was in 
*-he hospital five weeks, but now she is back at St. 
]J>(Iargaret’s. Her arm is going on well, though it will 
months before she will be able to use it with com- 
fort.” 

‘ ‘ And she strained herself, you say ?’ ’ 

“Yes, but she has got over that now. She has 
been very ill, Wentworth, it is no good denying that, 
but she has turned the corner and is mending fast. 
They say that she is very much changed, and that her 
weakness seems to puzzle and distress her. She is 

19 


290 


THE AFTERMATH 


very low-spirited and frets a great deal about the baby , 
being weak, things get hold of her. She has an idea 
that it is her fault somehow. There, I have told you 
all ; I have kept nothing back.” 

“ Nothing ; are you sure, are you quite sure of that, 
Cornish ?’ ’ then, as the Professor hesitated, he faced 
round upon him sternly. ‘ ‘ Out with it, man ; we 
know each other well enough by this time ; there must 
be no reservation.” 

“There is little more to tell,” returned the other, 
slowly. ‘ ‘ I saw the doctor ; he was a man of few 
words, but I understood from what he said that at one 
time they had been extremely anxious. ’ * 

“Yes, yes ; and now ?” 

“ Well, she will not be fit for work for a long time to 
come ; the nerves have suffered from the shock, and he 
certainly has his doubts whether she will ever be her 
strong capable self again. At one time they think that 
she believed herself dying, for she called Sister Miriam 
to her : ‘ If I get worse, will you send for Mr. Went- 
worth, the Vicarage, Sandilands? there is something 
that I must tell him before I go.’ And though Sister 
Miriam promised her faithfuHy that she would do so, 
she was not certain that she was not wandering. 

“ ‘ Is his name Evelyn ?’ she asked me ; ‘ for all that 
first terrible night we heard her say that name perpet- 
ually there, Wentworth, on my honour, I have told 
you all I know myself. ’ ’ And Mr. Cornish rose a little 
abruptly, perhaps because the man beside him had hid- 
den his face in his hands, and something like a choked 
sob reached his ears. 

“He has taken it hard,” the Professor murmured 
to himself as he walked slowly back to the house. 


THE AFTERMATH 


291 


* ‘ Good God, how could she have the heart to play 
with a man like Evelyn Wentworth and to spoil his 
life!” 

Taken it hard, all the rest of his life the Vicar never 
remembered that night without a shudder ; the moon- 
light faded, the grey walls of the Vicarage became in- 
visible, and still he sat on half stupefied and benumbed 
by dull aching anguish — until his limbs trembled, and 
when he rose to his feet he tottered like an old man. 

The damp wood had chilled him, but some thoughtful 
hand had kindled a fire in the study, and had placed 
some wine and food on the table. He took some to 
strengthen himself, then he went to his desk and wrote 
a few lines rapidly. 

“Marion, I have only to-night heard that terrible 
story. We are friends, nothing can alter that, and 
friends should share each other’s trouble. May I come 
and see you ? perhaps I may be able to comfort you a 
little in your hour of weakness. — Your faithful Brother 
in Christ, Evelyn Wentworth.” 

And then when he had enclosed the note in an enve- 
lope, he stole softly out of the Vicarage, and walked 
across the dark sleeping village and posted it. 

Before the Professor left the answer came ; they 
were on the terrace together, waiting until Barry sum- 
moned them to breakfast, when a letter with the 
London post-mark was placed in the Vicar’s hand. 
The writing on the envelope was unknown to him, but 
inside there was a slip of paper, pencilled by Marion 
Brett herself. 

“ Dear Friend,” was all it said, “it was good of 
you to write. I should like to see you, but you will find 
me a sad wreck. — Marion.” 


292 


THE AFTERMATH 


Two hours later, the Vicar had taken leave of the 
Professor and was on his way to the station ; and it 
was still early in the afternoon when he walked up 
Tudor Street and knocked at the door of St. Mar- 
garet’s Home. 

The young girl who admitted him ushered him into 
a Jittle waiting-room, and begged him to sit down until 
Sister Miriam was at leisure, but the tei> minutes that 
elapsed before she made her appearance seemed to him 
endless. 

When the little grey-eyed woman at last entered, he 
recognised her at once from his friend’s description. 
“You are Sister Miriam,’’ he said, eagerly. “ I hope 
you have good news for me ; Miss Brett and I are 
very old friends. When I heard of that terrible acci- 
dent, I felt I must come and see her at once. ’ ’ 

“ Sister Marion is expecting you, Mr. Wentworth,” 
she returned, gently ; ‘ ‘ she knows you are here. She 
is better ; every day she gets more like herself, but 
you must prepare yourself for a shock. She is sadly 
changed. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Do you mean, ’ ’ and here a grey tinge overspread the 
Vicar’s face, “that her accident has disfigured her?” 

“No, oh, no,” returned Sister Miriam, hastily; 
“thank God, her dear face has not suffered. But she 
is so weak and can bear so little, and at times her de- 
pression is sad to witness. When you see her, you 
will understand things for yourself ; but I will not 
keep you from her any longer ;’ ’ and then she led the 
way, talking cheerfully all the time, down a long 
matted passage, and opened the door of a pleasant 
little sitting-room, overlooking a green narrow strip of 
garden. 


THE AFTERMATH 


293 

There was a couch by the window, and there, 
propped up by pillows, lay Marion Brett. 

Perhaps the Vicar’s eyes were a little dim, or the 
light bewildered him, but that first moment he saw 
nothing but grey draperies and a black sling, and the 
shining of auburn hair under the cap border ; but 
when she turned and looked at him, and their eyes 
met, a great stab of pain went through his heart, and 
unconsciously he fell on his knees beside her. 

“Oh, my poor child !” was all he said ; but at the 
sound of that pitying voice a sob came to her wan lips, 
and her hand clasped his wrist almost convulsively. 

“Evelyn,” she whispered in a hoarse, frightened 
voice that he scarcely recognised, ‘ ‘ I have been in the 
valley of the shadow of death ; but it was you that I 
wanted when I thought I was dying. I felt I could not 
die without your forgiveness, and yet how was I to live 
in such torture. Oh, what I suffered ! and then the 
horrible dread and fear.” 

Suffered ! it needed no words to tell him that ; the 
white pinched face of the woman he loved so hope- 
lessly, the frightened, sunken look of the beautiful 
eyes told their own piteous tale. Marion Brett, who 
had so gloried in her strong personality, lay before 
him, broken in heart and nerve, and helpless as a little 
child. 

“Evelyn,” she went on, almost clinging to him 
with her feeble grasp ; for he was speechless with 
trouble. “Did you hear me? I was frightened — 
frightened for the first time in my life. I was afraid 
to die, and now,” and here another sob almost choked 
her words, “lam afraid to live. What is the use of 
life when one only makes mistakes ? I have so prayed 


294 


THE AFTERMATH 


to be of use in the world ; to be a blessing and to 
bless other lives, but what good have I done ? and now 
my strength is gone, and my work has gone too. ’ ’ 

“No, no,” he returned, for this roused him to quick, 
urgent speech. “You shall not say such things to 
me. I know you too well to believe them. You have 
been a heroine if ever woman was one ; when men re- 
fused to enter that fiery hell, you went in at the peril 
of your sweet life and brought the children out, ’ ’ and 
then, in his deep reverence, he bent over her with 
worshipping eyes and pressed his lips to the silk sling 
that held the bandaged arm ; “in the name of Him 
whom I serve, I bless you for that deed of love, as all 
true hearts will bless you.” 

She lay silent for a moment as though his words had 
soothed her. But the next minute the look of pain 
and confusion returned again. 

‘ ‘ But the baby was dead ! surely you know that, 
Evelyn.” 

“Yes, dear, I know that, but it was no fault of 
yours ; how could you have saved her from that falling 
beam when your poor arm was broken? If God’s 
angel had not guided you, neither you nor the boy 
would have escaped alive,” then he felt her shudder 
all over. 

“ It was a miracle,” she said, in a low, bewildered 
voice, and a wan smile came to her lips. “The 
flames were all round us, everywhere, hundreds of red 
serpents, twining over our heads, and the heat and 
suffocation were dreadful ; sometimes even now I start 
from my sleep with a scream, and think I hear that 
terrible roar. ’ ’ 

“Yes, I know, but you must try to forget it, 


THE AFTERMATH 


295 


Marion ; listen to me a moment, these fears, this hor- 
ror, this nameless dread that oppresses you, are only 
signs of misery and tortured nerves ; they are the ran- 
som you are paying for the boy’s life ; it is a martyr- 
dom that you are suffering, you poor soul, but it will 
pass. ’ ’ 

“No, no !“ 

“Ah, but as God’s minister I tell you that it will. 
All your life, my poor Marion, you have loved your 
own will, and have sought to walk in your own paths ; 
but Providence is giving you this humbling lesson of 
weakness. You see I am not afraid to speak the 
truth to you.” 

“No, you were always true,” she murmured, half 
to herself ; and then there came a wonderful brightness 
to his face. 

‘ ‘ I am your friend, and friends should be true ; 
but, Marion, I have talked enough ; you are very 
feeble, but to-morrow I will come again.” And then 
in tender solemn words he blest her and went away ; 
and that night she enjoyed a few hours of untroubled 
sleep for the first time since her accident. 

This was the beginning of Evelyn Wentworth’s min- 
istry to the woman he loved ; two or three days after- 
wards he found a locum tenens for his parish in an old 
College friend, and put him in possession ; then he 
took a lodging for himself near Tudor Street, and day 
after day he sat in Marion Brett’s little sitting-room 
reading or talking to her. 

“No one does her so much good,” Sister Miriam 
would say. “I think she counts the hours until you 
come,” but Evelyn Wentworth only smiled a little 
sadly when he heard this. 


296 


THE AFTERMATH 


But it was no easy task, even for his loving and faith- 
ful nature, to minister to that diseased and weary mind ; 
he would leave her in the evening braced and cheered, 
and with almost a smile on her lips, but the next day 
the puzzled look of pain in her eyes w'ould bring back 
his heartache. 

‘ ‘ Oh, Evelyn, I have had bad dreams again, ’ * she 
would say ; ‘ ‘ how am I to live through these nights ?’ ’ 
And sometimes she would break out into piteous weep- 
ing, and beg him to pray that she might die, for exist- 
ence was too terrible a burden for her to bear. 

It was sadly up-hill work, but he never lost patience 
with her. Gently as one would speak to a bewildered 
child he would go over the old arguments. “ It is the 
heavy price you are paying for the boy’s life,” and 
then he would praise her and tell her that she was 
noble, and a heroine, until the old lovely smile came to 
the poor trembling lips. 

But often his own heart felt ready to break. 

‘ ‘ Will she ever get over it ?’ ’ he asked the doctor 
once ; he was a Scotchman, and rather taciturn — he 
frowned over the Vicar’s question. 

“She is mending every day,” he returned at last ; 
‘ ‘ but I begin to fear that she will never be fit for work 
again. She must take life more easily and enjoy her- 
self, that is what I tell her. St. Margaret’s will get on 
very well without her : it is not a sisterhood, and she is 
as free as I am. ’ ’ 

“Yes, I know, Macpherson ; but then you see her 
heart is in her work. How are we to interest her in 
anything else ?’ ’ 

“My dear Mr. Wentworth, that is nK)re your prov- 
ince than mine, but when a woman has been on the 


THE AFTERMATH 


297 


brink of brain fever, and has had such a shock, she is 
likely to be shelved for a year or two ; you must get her 
away from here to some quiet sea-side place, where she 
can be amused without fatigue. Sister Miriam is an 
excellent nurse, and will go with her.” And after a 
time this plan was carried out, and lodgings were taken 
for her at St. Leonard’s. 

It was not possible for the Vicar to neglect his work 
any longer, but every week he spent a few hours with 
her. He knew how welcome his visits were, and each 
time he came he was cheered by the decided improve- 
ment in her. ‘ ‘ Evelyn, ’ ’ she said to him once as they 
sat together by the window on a late November after- 
noon, ‘ ‘ I cannot bear to think of all the trouble I am 
giving you ; these long journeys every week just to 
brighten up a poor invalid and to give her a few hours 
of enjoyment. You are so good, so good. No one 
else would heap coals of fire on such an unworthy 
creature, and I take it all as though it were my right,” 
and then she began to weep in the old miserable 
way. 

“ Marion,” he said, softly, and something in his tone 
seemed to check her tears, ‘ ‘ do not cry so bitterly. I 
want to speak to you. Am I really good to you, my 
darling ?’ ’ Then a quick blush came to her thin face. 

“You have been goodness itself. How could I have 
lived through this dreadful time without you ?’ ’ 

“Then give me my reward,” he returned, as he drew 
her towards him. ‘ ‘ Give me the right to watch over 
you, Marion. I have loved you all my life. I think 
no other woman has ever been more truly loved. For 
your sake I have been a lonely man, without wife or 
child, but I cannot face a lonely old age,” then she 


298 


THE AFTERMATH 


shrank from him almost in silence, and covered her 
burning face with her hands. 

“As you are strong, be merciful. Do not tempt 
me, Evelyn.” 

‘ ‘ Why not, my dearest ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Because — because — I might be weak enough to 
yield, ’ ’ she whispered. ‘ ‘ Because I love so dearly to 
be with you, and it would be such rest and comfort ; 
but I will not do it, never, never. How could I bring 
myself to do such a shameful thing ? In the days of 
my health and strength I left you and broke your 
heart, and now am I to be a burden to you in my 
weakness ?’ ’ but he checked all further speech. 

‘ ‘ Marion, beloved, ’ ’ he said almost solemnly, as he 
looked into the deep, beautiful eyes, “it is no use. 
My will is stronger than yours. We will never sepa- 
rate again, you and I, until death us do part. You 
are mine, mine in heart and mind, as I am yours, and 
if I loved you in the days of strength, I love you far 
more dearly now in your weakness and sadness,” and 
then, as he kissed her, the chrism of victorious love 
seemed to flood her very soul with sweetness. 

And so in the fresh springtime Marion Brett became 
Evelyn Wentworth’s wife. People sometimes said that 
it was a pity that Mrs. Wentworth was such an invalid, 
and that her husband was obliged to wait on her, but 
Douglas Cornish, who came constantiy to the Vicarage, 
never shared this opinion. 

He knew that for the first time in his life Evelyn’s 
heart was at rest ; that the woman he had loved so pas- 
sionately all those weary years had become his dearer 
and second self. 

They had no thoughts apart : in her husband’s ab- 


THE AFTERMATH 


299 


sence Marion drooped and pined. “You have given 
me new life, ’ ’ she once said to him. ‘ ‘ I owe all my 
peace and happiness to you. How should I ever have 
struggled through that awful darkness without the help 
of your dear hand ?’ ’ 

“And you are really happy, dearest,” he asked, 
‘ ‘ in spite of all your limitations ; weak health and the 
pain in that poor arm ?’ ’ Then as she looked in his 
face he needed no other answer, for he knew that she 
was truly and utterly content, and that his wife was a 
happy woman. 


THE END. 










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